The man whom I could
care for at thirty would be the normal, safe and
substantial sort who would come in at six o'clock, kiss
me once, sniff the air twice and say: "Mm! What's that
smells so good, old girl? I'm as hungry as a bear. Trot
it out. Where are the kids?"
These are dangerous things to think upon. So
dangerous and disturbing to the peace of mind that I have
decided not to see Ernst von Gerhard for a week or two.
I find that seeing him is apt to make me forget Peter Orme;
to forget that my duty begins with a capital D; to forget
that I am dangerously near the thirty year old mark; to
forget Norah, and Max, and the Spalpeens, and the world,
and everything but the happiness of being near him, watching
his eyes say one thing while his lips say another.
At such times I am apt to work myself up into rather
a savage frame of mind, and to shut myself in my room
evenings, paying no heed to Frau Nirlanger's timid
knocking, or Bennie's good-night message. I uncover my
typewriter and set to work at the thing which may or may
not be a book, and am extremely wretched and gloomy and
pessimistic, after this fashion:
"He probably wouldn't care anything about you if you
were free.
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