a single page, I found
the word _baby_ inserted where I had meant to write _dog_ or one of the
few available synonyms. I wondered whether it was owing to lack of sleep
that my efforts failed and threw myself upon the bed, but my seeking for
balmy slumber was more ghastly than my attempt at literature. Never in
all my life had I been more arrantly wakeful. A desperate resolve came
to me and I flipped a quarter. Heads and I would sit down and play
solitaire; tails and I would take a boat to Coney Island, a place I
abhor. The coin rolled under the bed, and I was hunting clumsily for it
with a stick when a tremendous knock came at the door, followed by the
immediate entrance of the washerwoman's sister, whom I afterwards knew
as Eulalie Carpaux.

I explained my position, half under the bed, feeling that she had caught
me in an attitude lacking in dignity, but the good creature sympathized
with me and discovered my money at once, after which she insisted on
taking my whiskbroom and vigorously dusting my knees.

"I have come, Monsieur," she informed me, "to ask if your door may be
left open. The heat is terrible and the poor, dear lamb has perspiration
on her forehead. I know that currents of air are dangerous, but
suffocation is worse. What shall I do?"

"You will open as many doors as you please," I answered meekly.

"Thank you. One can see that Monsieur has a good heart, but then any
friend of Mademoiselle Frieda must be a good man. She is adorable and
uses a great deal of linen. May I ask who does Monsieur's washing?"

"A Chinaman," I answered shortly. "He scrubs it with cinders and irons
it with a nutmeg grater. I keep it in this closet on the floor."

"My sister," she informed me, "has four children and washes beautifully.
I am sure that if Monsieur allowed me to take his linen, he would be
greatly pleased."

"Take it," I said, and waved my hand to signify that the interview was
closed, whereupon she mopped her red face, joyfully, with her apron and
withdrew.

Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Immediately the most gorgeous ideas
for my story crowded my brain and the language came to me, beautiful and
touching. But the Murillo-woman's door was open and so was mine. Since
Eulalie had ventured to leave the room, it was most probable that her
charge was sleeping. The typewriter, of course, would awaken her at
once. Was that infant destined to deprive me of a living, to snatch the
bread from my mouth? But I reflect