A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

When Burrough came into his lonely cottage the first thing that struck him was the silence. Usually the wind was sighing and moaning; the water was roaring down the gorge beneath his windows. Inside two clocks were ticking and chattering like a pair of magpies; and Peter Grimalkin, Crown Prince of Cats, was purring upon the lounge. But there was not a sound that evening. There was not even a breeze upon the moor, not enough to make a moan. There was scarcely any water coming down the gorge, certainly far too little to raise a roar. The clocks had stopped, which was only natural, as Burrough had forgotten to wind them. Peter, generally over-punctual to meals, was absent, having left the impression of his body upon a cushion as a sort of hint he would return anon. The silence and loneliness were together more than Burrough could endure. He went out, leaned against his favourite rock, and presently began to offer serious advice to that portion of his personality which was inclined to break out into revolt. "Now, look here, old chap," he said, addressing the top of his boot. "You've been making a fool of yourself lately, and you've been knocked out. No more weakness. Sit up straight and take your punishment like a little man. Beatrice is not for you. She's been very kind and nice -- I won't say she hasn't flirted a bit, but that's her way -- and she's given you more happiness than you deserved; and now -- well, now she's going away, and you've got to stop here and make a living. I warned you right along you had no chance. There's all the difference in the world between a gentleman on granite and a gentleman on clover. You're on the granite, and always will be, and she's on the clover. If you hadn't been broken up by that shell it would have been just the same. You were a miserable creature to try and deceive her, and of course she's angry, and would naturally hate you, even if you weren't more than twice as ugly as wall-eyed Kellaway. You'll get over this all right, and settle down the same as ever. It's only a weak fool who permits his life to be spoilt by a love affair. You must remember that love, matrimony, companionship, are merely incidents of life. What a man does, his work, his actions, his influence -- those make up his life."

This was very sound philosophy, and suited Burrough's case admirably. He went on to assure himself that if Beatrice were to become his they would soon grow tired of one another; they might even quarrel, and separate in mutual disgust. Of course he wanted her, but that was not so much because he loved her, as because she was beyond him. He was so convinced that Beatrice had not been intended for him in any case, that he searched for Peter to impart the information to that indifferent creature. Peter, however, was in none of his usual haunts.