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Page 6
This should go very well with a banjo accompaniment.
* * * * *
THE TRAGEDY OF AN AUTHOR'S WIFE.
"I won't stand it any longer," said Janet intensely, meeting me in the
hall. "Take off your umbrella and listen to me."
"It's off," I replied faintly, perceiving that something was all my fault.
"Can't you hear it singing 'Niagara' in the porch?"
I dropped the shopping on the floor and sat down to watch Janet walking up
and down the room.
"I want," she continued in the tone of one who has had nobody to be
indignant with all day, "a divorce."
"Who for?" I inquired. "Really, darling, we can't afford any more presents
this--"
"Me," she interrupted, frowning.
"Couldn't you have it for your birthday?" I suggested. "I may have some
more money by then. Besides, I gave you--"
"No, I could not," replied Janet in a voice like the end of the world; "I
want it now. I will not wear myself out trying to live up to an impossible
ideal, and lose all my friends because they can't help comparing me with
it. And it isn't even as if it were my own ideal. I never know what I've
got to be like from one week to another. And what do I get for my
struggles? Not even recognition, much less gratitude."
"Janet," I said kindly, "I don't know _what_ you're talking about. Who are
these people who keep idealising you? I will not have you annoyed in this
way. Send them to me and I'll put a little solid realism into their heads.
I'll tell them what you really are, and that'll settle their unfortunate
illusions. Dear old girl, don't worry so.... I'll soon put it right."
Janet looked at me piercingly.
"It's this," she said; "I keep having people to call on me."
"I know," I answered, shuddering; "but I can't help it, can I? You
shouldn't be so attractive."
"Dear Willyum," she replied, "that's just the point; you _can_ help it."
"Stop calling me names and I'll see what can be done."
"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly.
"I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your
articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly
all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and--and--"
I gripped her hand in silence.
"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even
those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to
themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we
never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round
me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away
indignant and never think kindly of me again."
She gloomed.
"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly
have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the
things they say you say I say...."
"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."
"But it's quite _true_," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought
to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself
with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and--and it's
no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only--sort of misrubble."
She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her
conclusion.
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