There was another thing he yielded also. Against my firm refusal to go to the altar or the courthouse until a proper time elapsed, he talked in vain.
"Contending with you is like biting into granite," he said with annoyance, "and my poor teeth are being worn away."
"It is harder to be the granite," I told him. "I would be so much happier transformed into pliable putty."
"Why not try it for a pleasant change?" he inquired.
"Because, for your sake, I cannot. You are not granite to me,—you are a piece of marble out of which I am trying with chisel in my hand to release the something concealed there."
"Your chisel is sharp and the process is a painful one."
"So it is," I admitted, "and I do not know to which of us it is the more so. Shall I put it down and rest?"
Mr. Saltus smiled.
"No, little Puss. You are the instrument of karma. Keep on chiseling. You believe in me, and if you think there is something worth while, awaiting release—do not falter. Only the one who sees it can set it free."