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Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975

"The Man Upstairs and Other Stories"


He had expected wild surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tongue
in an annoyed manner.
'Again!' she said. 'What a nuisance! I was locked in only a week ago.'
He looked at her with unwilling respect, the respect of the novice for
the veteran. She was nothing to him now, of course. She had passed out
of his life. But he could not help remembering that long ago--eighteen
months ago--what he had admired most in her had been this same spirit,
this game refusal to be disturbed by Fate's blows. It braced him up.
He sat down and looked curiously at her.
'So you left the stage?' he said.
'I thought we agreed when we parted not to speak to one another,' said
she, coldly.
'Did we? I thought it was only to meet as strangers.'
'It's the same thing.'
'Is it? I often talk to strangers.'
'What a bore they must think you!' she said, hiding one-eighth of a
yawn with the tips of two fingers. 'I suppose,' she went on, with faint
interest, 'you talk to them in trains when they are trying to read
their paper?'
'I don't force my conversation on anyone.'
'Don't you?' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise. 'Only
your company--is that it?'
'Are you alluding to the present occasion?'
'Well, you have an office of your own in this building, I believe.'
'I have.


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