After that day came a pause in the drama (Adele declared that it was really a tragedy caused by one life trying to bend another to its will) until the day when the new issue of the Monthly arrived in the noon mail. As Robbie Belle was still in the infirmary of course, the rest of the board took hold of her share of the work. We divided the list of subscribers between us, and started out to distribute the magazines at the different rooms in the various dormitories.
SHE WAVED AN OPEN LETTER IN HER HAND
Part of my route happened to include the neighborhood of the sanctum. Just as I turned into Maria’s alleyway to leave the three copies always provided for every contributor, she came dashing out of her room in such a headlong rush that I barely saved my equilibrium by a rapid jump to one side. As soon as she could control her own impetus she whirled and bore down upon me once more.
“Mercy, mercy!” I cried, backing into a corner by the hinges and holding my pile of magazines in front as a rampart, “don’t be an automobile any more.”
She waved an open letter in her hand.
“Mother says I may elect all the math I want. She says I can’t write a little bit. She says that this prize story shows I can’t. She says it is awful—all except the plot, and that isn’t mine, you know. She says that the vocabulary, sentence structure, everything proves me mathematical to the centre of my soul. She says she has always been afraid she was making a mistake to force a square peg into a round hole. I’m the peg, you understand. She says I needn’t struggle any more, and she’ll be just as proud of a mathematical genius as of a mechanical author. She says she is grateful for the honor of the prize, but she thinks the board of editors made a mistake.”
I walked feebly into the room, sank on the couch, and propped myself against that yellow silk pillow.