She rather liked coincidences.
Yours in mutual contempt, Julian
Egbert winced. He had a sensitive soul, which Laura regarded as a kind of internal malformation, like a cleft palate of the character.
There was a young man—lean, dark, with the kind of restless hands that looked as though they were perpetually searching for something to break. He did not weep. He stared at the coffin with an expression of cold, scientific curiosity. Laura was fascinated. laura by saki pdf
"Enemy," said the young man. "The general ruined my father. Drove him to bankruptcy and an early grave. I came to make sure he was really dead."
That afternoon, she attended the general's funeral. It was a splendid affair, with a military band playing something suitably somber and a clergyman whose voice trembled with a professional sorrow that Laura found deeply soothing. She stood near a yew tree, pretending to dab her eyes with a handkerchief that smelled of lavender, and studied the other mourners.
"Was he a relation?" she whispered, drifting closer. She rather liked coincidences
"Love," she repeated, as though he had suggested installing a maypole in the drawing room. "Love is for people who have not discovered the pleasure of a well-attended inquest. Love is for the sort of people who send flowers to hospitals. Julian, I married you because you hated the same things I hated. If you start loving things, you will become indistinguishable from the common herd of humanity, and I shall have to divorce you."
The wedding was small, sharp, and awkward. Egbert did not attend. He sent a letter instead, warning Laura that she was making a catastrophic mistake. Laura framed it and hung it in the hallway, next to a funeral card for a child she had never met. For six months, the marriage was a triumph of mutual misanthropy. Laura and Julian attended twenty-seven funerals together. They kept a ledger, ranking each for quality of music, depth of grave, and quantity of genuine tears shed by the bereaved. A funeral with no tears was considered "efficient"; a funeral with hysterical weeping was "excellent sport."
The young man blinked. He was not accustomed to being liked at funerals. His name, it transpired, was Julian March, and by the time the last spadeful of earth had been thrown onto the general's coffin, he had agreed to walk Laura home. Egbert was horrified. There was a young man—lean, dark, with the
She did not write back. Instead, she began planning her next funeral. It was, she had heard, going to be a very good one. The deceased had been a tax collector, universally detested. There would be no tears. There might, if she was lucky, be a fistfight.
"Watch me," said Laura. The divorce was swift, scandalous, and deeply satisfying to Egbert, who attended the proceedings with a small bag of peppermints and an expression of vindicated gloom. Laura cited "fundamental incompatibility of temperament," which was technically true. Julian did not contest. He had, he told the judge, "come to believe in the possibility of redemption," which Laura noted down for future use as evidence of insanity.
On the day the decree was finalized, Laura received a letter. It was from Julian, written on black-bordered paper—funeral stationery. She opened it with keen interest.
"Laura," he said, "I have been thinking. Perhaps hatred is not enough. Perhaps what we need is... love."