54 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



a long nap. She is one of the best of women, Mrs. 

 X., at the same time I am led to speculate whether 

 her type — for she represents a type — is not curious- 

 ly insensitive? This probably heretical surmise 

 persists. The benevolent ministrations of such 

 women leave them unperturbed, appetite and ca- 

 pacity for sleep normal. It has been my lot to have 

 been mixed up with horror, grief and tragedy — not 

 constantly after the manner of my kind neighbor, 

 but often enough, God wot. Such experiences do 

 not slide so easily into the limbo of forgetfulness 

 but abide to haunt one's dreams, torture one's wak- 

 ing hours, urge one to fretting, and often vain, en- 

 deavor to mitigate cruel circumstance. Of all 

 forms of suffering vicarious suffering presents it- 

 self to me as the least endurable. With kind, use- 

 ful Mrs. X. the case is otherwise. 



"Of course you won't come to my bridge party ?" 

 she observes as she lifts the reins. "You are ab- 

 solutely impossible !" 



"Incompetence like mine is impossible !" I retort. 

 "Instead of spoiling a pleasant game I am better 

 employed in putting my chickens to bed and dispos- 

 ing of the evening's milk." 



She departs with a neighborly sniff, quite un- 

 convinced, and I am abandoned to my reading, or 

 what I believe to be reading. As a matter of fact 

 I am soon gazing idly out of the eastern window of 

 my big, cool den. Who would not, given the same 

 outlook? 



The roses that have run riot in my garden for 

 weeks all too brief are now over, the midsummer 



