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Rover, who sat listening politely as though he'd never heard this before, "that it's kind of a one-sided friendship. We do all the work. We get your dinners -his ears lifted at the magic word- "get your water, provide beds, fireplaces, baths -the ears flattened- all the necessities, nay, luxuries of the carefree dog's life. I began leaning close to him. "But what do you do in return, Best Friend? I leaned still closer. "Where are my slippers? He didn't know, but now he could, and did, as I'd expected, give me a wet tongue up the side of my face. "That's the deal? I said. "Dog spit all over the face? Listen -I grabbed him around the shoulders, hugging him close while he tried to pull his head loose, but I had him. "Where did you guys ever get this idea that a face lacquered with dog spit is some kind of favor? Thousands of years, but you never learn. I let him go, and he sat paying attention to whatever I might want to say. Dogs try to understand, they want to; cats never do. I gave Rove a friendly tail yank; then he followed me in, and out to his back-porch bed.
    Up in our big bedroom Julia and I moved around, getting ready' for bed, not saying much, still under the spell of a good evening. I liked this room, liked them all, but this especially: carpeted; gaslit; furnished with what I was aware were almost ridiculously massive, overornamented tables, chiffoniers, two big wardrobes, a leather chair, our big bed. But a place I loved: peaceful, a refuge.
    Above my right shoulder-we were in bed now, sitting up to talk for a few moments the way we usually did-an open-flame light burned steady behind an etched and frosted shade. On the small marble-topped table beside me lay a copy of the new January 11, 1887, issue of Leslie's Weekly. I had two drawings in it this week, and I liked looking at them; so did Julia, who saved them all. My watch and chain, the watch tick-ticking pleasantly-I had just wound it-lay on the Leslie's. From below, outside at street level and approaching our slightly opened window, footsteps-made not by shoes but by boots, striking not concrete but cut stone, to make a sound not twentieth-century but nineteenth-footsteps approached, then moved on by, the sound distancing. As so often, I felt the thrill and mystery of simply being here, hearing those unseen late-at-night footsteps deep in the nineteenth century. Whose? Going where? For what never-to-be-known purpose? And to continue how far on into the future?
    We sat against the dark carved wood of the great bedstead, snug under a thick quilt, in our nightgowns; I'd long since and absolutely refused to wear a nightcap, cold as it could get when the coals in the fireplace across the room burned out. Once in a while you're momentarily conscious of being happy. But I'm superstitious, and I picture Fate-best be respectful, and use a capital F --as a misty' presence somewhere up in the sky but not too far away. Always listening, alert and ready to punish forbidden optimism. But I couldn't help it, feeling as purely content as it is possible to be, I would think, and in that moment as sometimes happens, Julia said, "Are you happy, Si?
    "Not at all. Why should I be?
    "Because of me maybe?
    "Well, okay. Right now . . . here in this house . . . Willy safely asleep across the hall, Rover snug in his bed, two drawings in the paper this week, and here in this cozy bed with you-
    "Stop that. It's much too late.
    "I'm about as happy -I glanced at the ceiling to say, "Only fooling! - as any human being could be without throwing up. That suit you?
    "Just barely better than nothing at all.
    "Best I can do. Whv'd you ask-something bothering you?
    "Oh, no. It's just that you've been singing again.
    "What?
    "Those strange songs.
    "Oh Lord, I didn't realize.
    "Yes. After you gave Willy his bath on Sunday, I was getting him into bed, and he was trying to sing something about Raindrop fa' my head.'
    "Damn it, I've got to cut that out! I don't want to burden that boy with any