er in, although it did not make him thin. Bella was
flirting, too, and by the time they had been married a year, people
hitched their chairs together and dropped their voices when they were
mentioned.

Well, on the anniversary of the day Bella left him--oh yes, she left him
finally. She was intense enough about some things, and she said it got
on her nerves to have everybody chuckle when they asked for her husband.
They would say, "Hello, Bella! How's Bubbles? Still banting?" And Bella
would try to laugh and say, "He swears his tailor says his waist is
smaller, but if it is he must be growing hollow in the back."

But she got tired of it at last. Well, on the second anniversary of
Bella's departure, Jimmy was feeling pretty glum, and as I say, I am
very fond of Jim. The divorce had just gone through and Bella had taken
her maiden name again and had had an operation for appendicitis. We
heard afterward that they didn't find an appendix, and that the one they
showed her in a glass jar WAS NOT HERS! But if Bella ever suspected, she
didn't say. Whether the appendix was anonymous or not, she got box after
box of flowers that were, and of course every one knew that it was Jim
who sent them.

To go back to the anniversary, I went to Rothberg's to see the
collection of antique furniture--mother was looking for a sideboard
for father's birthday in March--and I met Jimmy there, boring into a
worm-hole in a seventeenth-century bedpost with the end of a match, and
looking his nearest to sad. When he saw me he came over.

"I'm blue today, Kit," he said, after we had shaken hands. "Come and
help me dig bait, and then let's go fishing. If there's a worm in every
hole in that bedpost, we could go into the fish business. It's a good
business."

"Better than painting?" I asked. But he ignored my gibe and swelled up
alarmingly in order to sigh.

"This is the worst day of the year for me," he affirmed, staring
straight ahead, "and the longest. Look at that crazy clock over there.
If you want to see your life passing away, if you want to see the steps
by which you are marching to eternity, watch that clock marking the
time. Look at that infernal hand staying quiet for sixty seconds and
then jumping forward to catch up with the procession. Ugh!"

"See here, Jim," I said, leaning forward, "you're not well. You can't go
through the rest of the day like this. I know what you'll do; you'll
go home to play Grieg on the pianola, and you wo