eat, she invariably would visit my room, carrying in her hand a writing pad and a pen. "Excuse me. It's so noisy downstairs with my sister and my little brother that I can't collect my thoughts enough to write a letter." She would seat herself at my desk and write, sometimes for over an hour. It would have been so much simpler if I just lay there and pretended not to be aware of her, but the girl's looks betrayed only too plainly that she wanted me to talk, and though I had not the least desire to utter a word, I would display my usual spirit of passive service: I would turn over on my belly with a grunt and, puffing on a cigarette, begin, "I'm told that some men heat their bath water by burning the love letters they get from women." "How horrid! It must be you." "As a matter of fact, I have boiled milk that way —and drunk it too." "What an honor for the girl! Use mine next time!" If only she would go, quickly. Letter, indeed! What a transparent pretext that was. I'm sure she was writing the alphabet or the days of
the week and the months. "Show me what you've written," I said, although I wanted desperately to avoid looking at it. "No, I won't," she protested. "Oh, you're dreadful." Her joy was indecent enough to chill all feeling for her. I thought up an errand for her to do. "Sorry to bother you, but would you mind going down to the drugstore and buying me some sleeping tablets? I'm over-exhausted. My face is burning so I can't sleep. I'm sorry. And about the money . .." "That's all right. Don't worry about the money." She got up happily. I was well aware that it never offends a woman to
