I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. Luckily I’m not.
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