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 that at present I am better satisfied with him than he with me. It wasn’t a very admirable performance on my part to discharge him, I’m afraid; and, while he has probably forgiven it, the chances are against his having forgotten. In some ways I’m rather a despicable character. Miss Berrith.” Now, that was about as insensate a remark as I could possibly have made, and I cannot imagine what led me to say anything so idiotic unless it was the second cup of tea. The words had no sooner left my lips than I was seized with a profound sense of disgust. Here it was, the same old story — an autumn afternoon, drawing on to twilight; such a “cozy corner” as now comes, complete and ready-made, in any department store, at a maximum cost of thirteen dollars and a half; tea; a girl; a ridiculous appearance of intimacy which did not exist — and I was beginning to maunder like a Sophomore in a hammock. Bah!