“I'll be right down.”
He went back, hastily removed his slippers and began putting on his shoes. Mary saw that he had clean forgotten her story. Very well. It wouldn't take more than a minute to finish it—there would be plenty of time while he was getting into his shoes—but if he was not enough interested to refer to it again she certainly would not. In a few minutes the doctor was gone and Mary went to bed. An hour or two later his voice broke in upon her slumber. “Back again,” he said as he settled down upon his pillow. In a minute he exclaimed, “Say, Mary, what was the rest of that story?”
“O, don't get me roused up. I'm so sleepy,” she said drowsily.
“Well, I'd like to hear it.” The interest in her little story which had not been exhibited at the proper time was being exhibited now with a vengeance. She sighed and said, “I can't think of it now—tell you in the morning. Good night,” and turned away.
When morning came and they were both awake, the doctor again referred to the unfinished story.
“It's lost interest for me. It wasn't a story to start with, just a little incident that seemed odd—”
“Well, let's have it.”
“Well, then,” said Mary, “I was writing away when the door-bell rang. I went to open it and saw through the glass the laundry man—”
Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling.
“Go on!” exclaimed her husband, hurriedly, “I'll wait till you finish.”