Oh, John. It feels like it. You are one of the Immortals. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. "Call as you please, beloved girl," he cried, "I will not stir till I am answered. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours.
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