And in her old way she replied:
"I do not understand."
How vividly familiar it was, and yet how agonisingly strange!
"Where is Polyphemus?" she asked.
"Dead," said I.
"Oh-h! How did poor Polyphemus die?"
"He was smitten by Destiny at the end of the last act of a
farcical tragedy."
The ghost of a "_hou!_" came from Carlotta. She composed herself
immediately.
"I often used to think of Polyphemus and Seer Marcous and
Antoinette," she said, musingly. "And then I wished I was back.
I have been very wicked."
She put her elbows on the table, and framing her face with her
hands looked at me, and shook her head.
"Oh, you are good! Oh, you are good!"
"Go on with your dinner, my child," said I, "and wonder at the
genius of Antoinette who has managed to cook it and look after
you at the same time."
She obeyed meekly. I watched her eat. She was famished. I
learned that she had had nothing since the early morning coffee
and roll. In spite of pain, I was curiously flattered by her
return.
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