Between sips, as the expression goes, I addressed the envelope to Harold
Valentine, and gave it to Hannah. She went out the front door with it,
as I had expected, but I watched from a window, and she turned right
around and went in the area way. So THAT was all right.
It had worked like a Charm. I could tear my hair now when I think how
well it worked. I ought to have been suspicious for that very reason.
When things go very well with me at the start, it is a sure sign that
they are going to blow up eventualy.
Mother and Sis slept late the next morning, and I went out stealthily
and did some shopping. First I bought myself a bunch of violets, with a
white rose in the center, and I printed on the card:
"My love is like a white, white rose. H." And sent it to myself.
It was deception, I acknowledge, but having put my hand to the Plow,
I did not intend to steer a crooked course. I would go straight to the
end. I am like that in everything I do. But, on delibarating things
over, I felt that Violets, alone and unsuported, were not enough. I felt
that If I had a photograph, it would make everything more real. After
all, what is a love affair without a picture of the Beloved Object?
So I bought a photograph. It was hard to find what I wanted, but I got
it at last in a stationer's shop, a young man in a checked suit with a
small mustache--the young man, of course, not the suit. Unluckaly, he
was rather blonde, and had a dimple in his chin. But he looked exactly
as though his name ought to be Harold.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26