THE HAND THAT FED ME
23
gloat over it although-for
all
the fine impression I made-you never
answered my letters and even once, when I called on you (for per–
haps the tenth time) you actually hid from me. I know all about it.
Your brother came to the door and he seemed to have half a mind
to admit me; but behind him I could hear a commotion of shushing
and whispering, and I'm sure it was you, ducking into the pantry and
telling them to say you were out and on no account to let me in.
Of course, what makes all this slightly ridiculous, is the fact
that it happened three years ago. But why did you wait three years
before sending me a card? What was wrong with the Christmas of
the very same year, or the one of the year following? Ah, I know
how your mind works. On Christmas, 1939, you
suppressed
all
thought of me. In 1940 you allowed yourself to think, but only to
the following extent:
"If
I send him a Christmas card now, he'll
think I've been unable to forget him. So we'll wait another year or
two. By that time it'll be quite clear, when he gets my card, not that
I've been
unable
to forget him, but that I have so good a memory
that I can even recall the name and address of a man whom I saw
only once, three years ago."
Am
I right?
But it's a trivial thing and why attach so much importance to it?
I suppose you would have me believe that. You would have me be–
lieve that your card was only a way of acknowledging a pleasant
day that you had hitherto failed to acknowledge. Something brought
it
to your mind-say, an onion you had eaten recently. And so the
card, yes?
Not on your life, Ellen, not for one moment will I believe it.
For if it were only a trivial matter, would you have waited three
years? You would have sent me a card at once, or even phoned me
on the following day, as you'd promised. Trivialities are the things
women rush into, feeling they're important. The important things,
however, are what they mull over, plot, deliberate, all to no end. It
took you three years, Ellen, to convince yourself that a single after–
noon you had spent with me was trivial!
So there you are.
But one more thing. On your card you have written, "From
Ellen. Do you remember me?" A pretty little disingenuous note! I
assure you, your card was sent in the deepest conviction that I had
not once ceased to think of you. I'm sure of it.
If
you thought I'd
forgotten you, you wouldn't have dared send a card. What, a man
