This is Really a Fact.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 447, 19 February 1890, Page 3

This is Really a Fact.

They had quarrelled. That was nothing new. For three years they had quarrelled every second Monday night. He always took her to the theatre on Monday night, and the first and third Mondays regularly they had a fight, and they did not make up till Saturday night, because they did not want to miss the theatre. But this was an unusually desperate quarrel. She had received two calls from a gentleman, and when he hinted that that was all wrong, she had given him to understand that all was over between them. All was over. They had not spoken for two weeks, and when they met on the street they bowed coldly and passed on their separate ways. She was firm but he was firmer. So he said to himself. But he did not know her. She was getting a little concerned herself. He had not made the usual signs of weakening, and there was a big fashionable first night coming. She had made up her mind to make some subtle advance toward reconciliation, when, as she got off the car at the corner of the street where she lived, he, by the “most extraordinary accident of his having seen her, and made a bee line for a car on the other street, was there a little ahead of her. This was the time to be strong, and she hurried up the street, very much afraid he would not catch up to her before she reached home, but he did. She greeted him unconcernedly, and they walked along. She did nob ask him to come in, but he did kind of inadvertently. He was mad, and he had something to say to her. She got him into the house, and he was secure. Her weakness had vanished. As luck would have it, there was a lady calling, and she said he must excuse her.' ‘ Well, all right. Fou don’t want me, I can see, and I wouldn’t have you believe that I am such a fool as to beg you to be friends. You can have your new dude—‘You needn’t call anybody names. I don’t care whether you come or not.’ ‘Oh, I know that. I won’t intrude any longer. Good-by : How long will that lady keep you ?’ ‘I don,t know—perhaps five minutes, perhaps fifteen. I can’t send her away.’ ‘ Well, I’ll go into this parlor and wait.’ ‘As you please, but you. may have to wait some time.’

‘ You don’t want me to wait ? All right. I’ll go—bub as this is the last time I shall ever speak to you —I would like to say something. I’ll wait for you here.' ‘ You can, if you want to.’ So he pub his hat down and went into the little parlor. She kept him fifteen minutes, which was as long as she could hold her visitor, who had been calling upon her mother. Then she went in to see him. He had made up his mind ;he looked it. He was very dignified. * You are a flirt and the way you behave is shameful.’ ‘ I’m sorry you don’t like it, but if you don't you know—well—what you can do.’ ‘ Of course I know, and I’m going to do it. I would not speak co you again for anything. I thought a good deal of you, but I’m glad I have the chance to show you you can’t fool me.’ ‘ I didn’t want to fool you. Why should I? You’ve been very nice tome, but you are nob the only man, are you ?’ ‘Oh yes ! say all the mean things you can. But this is good-by. I shall nevercome to this house: again ; if you went down bn your knees and bogged me I would not do it. ’ ‘ Oh, I’m nob-going down on my knees to beg you, you may.be sure. I must go and get ready for dinner. If you have nothing more to say, I—’ ‘ I’ve got plenty to say, but I won’t be mean enough to say it. Good-by. ,1 hope you’ll be happy with the new dude.’ ‘Good-by.’ ■. , . ‘ You might shake bands with rfle, any : way.’

‘Good-by !’ . " , ‘No, but really, Kate, don’t you thinK you’ve treated me very badly ?’ ‘ I don’t think so. You’ve been silly.’ .‘I have? I like that! But I'm going. It’s no use prolonging this quarrel. Are you going to be home this evhning.’' ‘Yes.’ * I have to go out ’ * Have you ?’ .* Yes ; but will you be in at half-past nine?' . - ‘That’s very late.’ ‘I can’t get here before that.’ ‘Well, 1 won’t sit up for you, at any rate.’’ ‘ If I come at nine ?’ ‘ I dont know how I will feelabouc nine— I may go to bed.’ I might manage it by half-past eight/ but ’ ‘I really must go to dinner. Good-bye ! ‘Stay a moment; I’ll be here about a quarter-past eight.’ ‘ Perhaps I’ll be disengaged.’ ‘ Well, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ > And he was there at half-past seven, an d she made him apologize, and this usu al, Monday night visit cost him a very fine supper for her, They are now turtle dov es again. . . '