filling the marrow and changing its natural pink to a
Roquefort verdigris of decay, was my diagnosis of old Dewey's ailment.
He moved with a premeditation which nine times out of ten amounted to
standing still; rest resulted from two opposing forces, Mrs. Dewey's
beseeching and threats colliding with his will traveling against her
purpose with counter-balancing velocity and mass. A hired man would have
left her long ago under such tongue-lashing, but old Dewey could not
leave, because to leave is an act. There were no verbs in his vocabulary
comprehending possibilities of usefulness within range of the present
tense. What an irony in names! I often thought.

A man who is employed in the Department of Health has a pass to the good
wishes of a woman who rents a house in New York. Mrs. Dewey regarded me
as a person of influence with the governing powers, one who could
probably get her landlord to "do something with the old-fashioned
bathtub" by prying him through the official lever of departmental
requirements. It was far from my purpose to deceive her, but nothing I
could say in denial was strong enough to change her conviction. My
presence under her roof induced in Mrs. Dewey a state of expectancy over
a new enameled bathtub that carried with it at first more deference than
she paid to the other tenants. When my milk-bottle fell off the back
window-sill into the yard below, she swept up what the cat left without
complaining.

A few short weeks before I was a man with some confidence in my fellows;
life had its charms, hope sustained me. Rosy views are for those whose
faith has not been shattered. Optimism could find no support in my
bitter experiences. Hermits may find seclusion in crowds, thought I. No
one could find me at my new address, and it was my intention to seek no
new friends, and to avoid every one I knew. I did not want to answer
questions about Jim, and I did not want to hear anything more of him. I
had read all the published accounts of the fire and was glad to note
that the secret had not been revealed. As for Miss Tescheron, she had
probably lost faith in him and suspected me by this time. As I could not
explain to her my change of heart toward Jim without implicating myself,
I proposed to wash my hands of the whole affair and go it alone in
future--for a time at any rate. Should I not write to her and thank her
for sending flowers to me when I was ill? Was it not the grateful thing
to do? I had written