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“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. They don’t know who did it, actually. She did this to please him. At once divining the meaning of this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to the tube, and sucked away, while the person outside poured spirit into the bowl. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Yet there was nothing for her to do. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go.
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