A window had been open in Bibbs's room the evening before; he had left
his note-book on the sill--and the sheets were loose. The door was
open, and when Bibbs came in and closed it, he did not notice that
the two sheets had blown out into the hall. Sheridan recognized the
handwriting and put the sheets in his coat pocket, intending to give
them to George or Jackson for return to the owner, but he forgot and
carried them down-town with him. At noon he found himself alone in
his office, and, having a little leisure, remembered the bits of
manuscript, took them out, and glanced at them. A glance was enough
to reveal that they were not epistolary. Sheridan would not have
read a "private letter" that came into his possession in that way,
though in a "matter of business" he might have felt it his duty
to take advantage of an opportunity afforded in any manner whatsoever.
Having satisfied himself that Bibbs's scribblings were only a sample
of the kind of writing his son preferred to the machine-shop, he
decided, innocently enough, that he would be justified in reading
them.
It appears that a lady will nod pleasantly upon some windy
generalization of a companion, and will wear the most agreeable
expression of accepting it as the law, and then--days afterward,
when the thing is a mummy to its promulgator--she will inquire out
of a clear sky: "WHY did you say that the people down-town have
nothing in life that a chicken hasn't? What did you mean?" And she
may say it in a manner that makes a sensible reply very difficult
--you will be so full of wonder that she remembered so seriously.
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