She took no notice of this, and the Spirit continued: "He will not understand you here any better than he did on earth."
"No matter," she said; "I shall be the only sufferer, for he always thought that he understood me."
"His boots will creak just as much as ever --"
"No matter."
"And he will slam the door --"
"Very likely."
"And continue to read railway novels --"
She interposed, impatiently: "Many men do worse than that."
"But you said just now," said the Spirit, "that you did not love him."
"True," she answered, simply; "but don't you understand that I shouldn't feel at home without him? It is all very well for a week or two -- but for eternity! After all, I never minded the creaking of his boots, except when my head ached, and I don't suppose it will ache here; and he was always so sorry when he had slammed the door, only he never could remember not to. Besides, no one else would know how to look after him, he is so helpless. His inkstand would never be filled, and he would always be out of stamps and visiting-cards. He would never remember to have his umbrella re-covered, or to ask the price of anything before he bought it. Why, he wouldn't even know what novels to read. I always had to choose the kind he liked, with a murder or a forgery and a successful detective."
