Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/49

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CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
37

man has the ears of an intelligent Cherokee. But I shall not write down what he said. The Accepted Manuscript declines the publication of such language. So I answered, for I had to say something:

"Where is Job, Mr. Herwin?"

"On my lap."

"I must say I don't think much of his taste. What is he doing?"

"Kissing me."

"Oh, good gracious!" . . .

So I shut the window down again, and I locked it, too. Pretty soon Job came up to my door and cried, and I let him in. But I did n't go down. And I did n't open the window. And there is n't air enough in this room to fill the lungs of a moth. And Job's tongue hangs out of his mouth like a long, pink ribbon, he pants so. It is ten o'clock.

It is half-past ten. I have opened the window far enough to tuck my silver hand-glass under—the little one. By the pronounced absence of nicotine from the atmosphere, I infer that the secretary has given up a bad argument and gone home.—I wonder, by the way, what kind of home he has? It never occurred to me to wonder, before. Some sort of chambers, I sup-

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