BY
MARY HEATON VORSE
To myself I could be articulate enough about it. Indeed, I held long conversations about it, mainly in the darkness of the night, with my bolder self, who advised me so cleverly and who told me all the tactful things and all the forceful things that I ought on occasion to say. Then there came, with that other self, a conversation which settled things. It went something in this way:
“You have let things go far enough.”
“Yes,” I admitted guiltily, “I know it.”
“It’s time you took a stand.”
“I know it,” I again admitted forlornly.
“Why don’t you do it then?” sternly asked the bolder self. He could afford to be bold, it wasn’t he who had the talking to do. “Why don’t you explain to Felicia the way you feel about it and how it looks and all about it——”
This time it was myself who grew bold. I said:
“You great ass! Do you think I’m going to let you make me make Felicia cry?”
“Better have her cry,” grumbled the other self, “than let her expose herself unthinking to—well, all sorts of things.” (One would have thought to hear him that Monty Saunders was the measles!)