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190 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
think it necessary to introduce him. Later on, my wife
reproached me for the omission, and called me unmannerly.
I accused both her and the Baron of tactlessness.
A violent quarrel ensued, in which she called me a
boor. One word led to another, and certain pictures were
mentioned which had once belonged to the Baron, but
were now decorating my walls. I begged her to send
them back to him.
" You cannot return presents without hurting the
giver," she exclaimed. "He doesn’t dream of returning
the presents you gave him, but keeps them as a proof of
his friendship and trust."
The pretty word "’trust " disarmed me. But my eye
fell on a piece of furniture which awakened unpleasant
memories.
" Where does this writing-table come from ?
"
"It was my mother’s."
She was speaking the truth, although she omitted to
add that it had passed through her first husband’s house.
What a strange lack of delicacy, what bad form, how
utterly regardless of my honour ! Was it done intention-
ally so as to depreciate me in the eyes of my fellow-men ?
Had I fallen into a trap set by an unscrupulous woman ?
I wondered. . . .
Yet I surrendered unconditionally without struggling
against her subtle logic, convinced that her aristocratic
bringing-up ought to serve me as a guide in all doubtful
cases where my education did not suffice. She had a ready
answer to everything. The Baron had never bought a
single piece of furniture. Everything belonged to her
—
and since the Baron did not scruple to keep my wife’s
furniture, I need not scruple to accept all articles which
belonged to my own wife.
The last phrase :
’ ’
Since the Baron did not scruple to
keep my wife’s furniture," caused me lively satisfaction.
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