“No, and no lovers’ quarrel, neither,” says Bess. “They couldn’t be no lovers’ quarrel, because they ain’t no lovers.”
“You had me fooled, then,” I says. “I’d of swore that you and Bishop was just like that.”
“You made a big mistake,” says Bessie. “I never cared nothin’ for him and he never cared nothin’ for me, because he’s incapable o’ carin’ for anything—only himself.”
“Why, Bess,” says the Missus, “you told me just yesterday mornin’ that you was practically engaged!”
“I don’t care what I told you,” she says; “but I’m tellin’ you somethin’ now: I don’t never want to hear of him or see him again. And you’ll do me a favor if you’ll drop the subject.”
“But where is he?” I ast her.
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” she says.
“But I got to find him,” I says. “He’s my guest.”
“You can have him,” she says.
I found him up in his room. The bell boy had got him somethin’, and it wasn’t poison, neither. At least I haven’t never died of it.
“Well, Bishop,” I says, “finish it up and come downstairs. Bess and the Wife’ll want some supper.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I don’t feel like eatin’ a thing.”
“But you can come down and set with us,” I says. “Bess will be sore if you don’t.”