s ago."

"I always knew you could not argue, Eliza," I replied. "But I am sorry
to see that your memory is failing you as well."

* * * * *

On the next day I bought a penny bottle of ink and left it behind me in
an omnibus. There was another bottle (this must have been a week later)
which I bought, but dropped on the pavement, where it broke. I did not
mention these things to Eliza, but I asked her how much longer she was
going to cast a shade over our married life by neglecting to fill the
ink-pot.

"Why," she said, "that has been done days and days ago! How can you be
so unjust?"

* * * * *

It was as she had said. I made up my mind at once to write to Eliza's
mother--who, rightly or wrongly, considers that I have a talent for
letter-writing. I felt happier now than I had done for some time, and
made up my mind to tell Eliza that I had forgiven her. I wrote a long,
cheerful letter to her mother, and thought I would show it to Eliza
before I posted it. I called up-stairs to her, "Come down, darling, and
see what I've done."

Then I sat down again, and knocked the ink-pot over. The ink covered
the letter, the table, my clothes, and the carpet; a black stream of it
wandered away looking for something else to spoil.

Then Eliza came down and saw what I had done. To this day she cannot
see that it was partly her own fault. The bottle, of course, was too
full.

THE PUBLIC SCANDAL

I am not a landlord. It suits my purpose better, and is in every way
more convenient, to rent a small house on a yearly agreement. But if I
were a landlord, I would not allow any tenant of mine to do anything
that tended to undermine and honeycomb the gentility of the district. I
should take a very short method with such a tenant. I should say to him
or her: "Now, then, either this stops, or you go out this instant."
That would settle it. However, I am not a landlord.

Even as a tenant I take a very natural interest in the district in
which I live. I chose the district carefully, because it was
residential, and not commercial. The houses are not very large, and
they might be more solidly built, but they are not shops. They have
electric bells, and small strips of garden, and a generally genteel
appearance. Two of the houses in Arthur Street are occupied by
piano-tuners, and bear brass plates. I do not object to that.
Piano-tuning is a professi