to my room, and
deliberately locked the door. My one regret was that I couldn't see
Dinky-Dunk's face when that key turned. And now I must stop writing, and
go to bed, for I am dog-tired. I know I'll sleep better to-night. It's
nice to remember there's a man near, if he happens to be the man you
care a trifle about, even though you _have_ calmly turned the door-key
on him.

_Sunday the Third_

Dinky-Dunk has at least the sensibilities to respect my privacy of life.
He knows where the deadline is, and doesn't disregard it. But it's
terribly hard to be tragic in a two-by-four shack. You miss the
dignifying touches. And you haven't much leeway for the bulky swings of
grandeur.

For one whole day I didn't speak to Dinky-Dunk, didn't even so much as
recognize his existence. I ate by myself, and did my work--when the
monster was around--with all the preoccupation of a sleep-walker. But
something happened, and I forgot myself. Before I knew it I was asking
him a question. He answered it, quite soberly, quite casually. If he had
grinned, or shown one jot of triumph, I would have walked out of the
shack and never spoken to him again. I think he knew he was on terribly
perilous ground. He picked his way with care. He asked me a question
back, quite offhandedly, and for the time being let the matter rest
there. But the breach was in my walls, Matilda Anne, and I was quite
defenseless. We were both very impersonal and very polite, when he came
in at supper time, though I think I turned a visible pink when I sat
down at the table, for our eyes met there, just a moment and no more. I
knew he was watching me, covertly, all the time. And I knew I was making
him pretty miserable. But I wasn't the least bit ashamed of it.

After supper he indifferently announced that he had nothing to do and
might as well help me wash up. I went to hand him a dish-towel. Instead
of taking the towel he took my hand, with the very profane ejaculation,
as he did so, of "Oh, hell, Gee-Gee, what's the use?"

Then before I knew it, he had me in his arms (our butter-dish was broken
in the collision) and I was weak enough to feel sorry for him and his
poor tragic pleading eyes. Then I gave up. If I was silly enough to have
a little cry on his shoulder, I had the satisfaction of feeling him
give a gulp or two himself.

"You're the most wonderful woman in the world!" he solemnly told me, and
then in a much less solemn way he began kissing me again.