HURT FEELINGS

You remember of course the day I acted so queerly in your studio? How happy we were going up the stairs, and how we laughed and vowed it would be the most wonderful day we had ever spent! “The day of days,” you called it. And do you remember how I tripped and dropped the tea and sugar packages, and you dropped the cake in an effort to steady me—and how we sat down on the steps and laughed and laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world? And then in the corridor you would not let me open the door until you had kissed my hands. But as soon as we were in the studio something seemed to snap within me, my mood changed entirely and I ceased to laugh; I put the packages on the table and was very quiet. Of course you thought I had one of my old-time headaches, and you took out that absurd headache cologne—which never does the slightest bit of good— and insisted upon spraying it over me. And you tried to make me laugh again and kissed my neck, but in spite of the fact that you looked like an injured little child, I stood looking out of the window and, when you asked me what was the matter, I merely replied “nothing.” Then in the face of all your desperate entreaties I left the studio, and went down the stairs out into the street.... I am sorry now I did it and, although I never meant to tell you the reason—now, because it all seems so trivial, I think I shall: Do you remember how I stopped laughing the instant you opened the door? That was because I noticed at once the little plant I gave you was placed in a dark corner, withered and dead.