Twenty years are supposed to have elapsed. Supposed, that is, by you and me, dear reader. Not by Angie. She had no idea that she was now nearing forty-five; no idea that anyone knew it. No one does. In her madness she still thought of herself as a young girl.
Now, in twenty years many things may happen. But nothing had. To be sure, several men had entered her life, but upon seeing her, they had left hurriedly by a rear window. Still she pursued them, still they escaped. Still she smiled, and hoped anew, like a man searching an oyster stew for the oyster.
For the fact was, the sad fact, if you look at it that way, Angela Bish was insane. The shock had completely unsettled her reason.
But there is always a compensation for all misfortunes. In her present state everyone says that she is far, far more intelligent than when she was really sane. Life, now, is one long lucid interval. She has perfect peace—and so do the men. She has a fond delusion. Angie believes that she is married. She is sure of it. So much so, that every man she sees seems to be her husband, try-
