I am flattered, though I do not delude myself for a moment that it is intended as a compliment. It is intended as a slur on my particular bent for self-assertion, but it is surely everyone’s privilege, if not duty, to tend first to his own garden. In any case, they will find some euphemistic phrase for me now that I am… But I get ahead of myself and will begin with my ending if I don’t beware. I have never written a story before and am already becoming confused. I shall recommence. My friend tells me it will be a perfect catharsis to purge my soul of all the spleen left behind by recent events. It is more likely to drive me insane, and you, too, if I don’t get on with it. There, he has counted up nine I’s in the first paragraph and confirmed me as an egotist. So be it. I (again I) am Priscilla Denver. No one has dared to call me Prissie since I was ten, fifteen years ago. If you are any sort of mathematician at all, it is not necessary for me to mention that I am twenty-five years old.
