Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You were never married at all. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. "How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!" He went to bed.
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