THE SIMMERERS.
"I shall never shake it off," said Francesca. It was six o'clock and she had just come in from having tea with some friends.
"Shake what off?" I said.
"My Cimmerian gloom," she said. "Haven't you noticed it?"
"No," I said, "I can't say I have. Perhaps if you stood with your back to the light—yes, there's just a soupçon of it now, but nothing that I could honestly call Cimmerian."
"Of course you'd be sure to say that. I can never get you to believe in my headaches, and now you won't notice my Cimmerian gloom."
"Francesca," I said, "I do not like to hear you speak lightly of your headaches. To me they are sacred institutions, and I should never dare to tamper with them. Don't I always walk on tiptoe and speak in a whisper when you have a headache? You know I do, even when you don't happen to be in the room. If your gloom is the same sort of thing as your headache——"
"It's much worse."
"If it's only as bad I'm prepared to give it a most respectful welcome. But what is it all about?"