“I cannot consent to such terms,” she said.  “Surely you recognise the fundamental difference between this proposed contract and those which you concluded with others—­with Faust, for instance?  They sold the full control of their soul after death on condition of your putting yourself at their entire disposal during the whole of their lifetime, whereas you ask me to do the same thing in return for a few hours’ service.  The proposal is preposterous.”

Mr. Satan rose from his chair.  “In that case, madam,” he said, “I have the honour to wish you a good afternoon.”

“Stop a moment,” said Mrs. Bergmann, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t arrive at a compromise.  I am perfectly willing that you should have the control over my soul for a limited number of years—­I believe there are precedents for such a course—­let us say a million years.”

“Ten million,” said Mr. Satan, quietly but firmly.

“In that case,” answered Mrs. Bergmann, “we will take no notice of leap year, and we will count 365 days in every year.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Satan, with an expression of somewhat ruffled dignity, “we always allow leap year, but, of course, thirteen years will count as twelve.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Bergmann with equal dignity.

“Then perhaps you will not mind signing the contract at once,” said Mr. Satan, drawing from his pocket a type-written page.

Mrs. Bergmann walked to the writing-table and took the paper from his hand.

“Over the stamp, please,” said Mr. Satan.

“Must I—­er—­sign it in blood?” asked Mrs. Bergmann, hesitatingly.

“You can if you like,” said Mr. Satan, “but I prefer red ink; it is quicker and more convenient.”

He handed her a stylograph pen.

“Must it be witnessed?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, “these kind of documents don’t need a witness.”

In a firm, bold handwriting Mrs. Bergmann signed her name in red ink across the sixpenny stamp.  She half expected to hear a clap of thunder and to see Mr. Satan disappear, but nothing of the kind occurred.  Mr. Satan took the document, folded it, placed it in his pocket-book, took up his hat and gloves, and said: 

“Mr. William Shakespeare will call to luncheon on Thursday week.  At what hour is the luncheon to be?”

“One-thirty,” said Mrs. Bergmann.

“He may be a few minutes late,” answered Mr. Satan.  “Good afternoon, madam,” and he bowed and withdrew.

Mrs. Bergmann chuckled to herself when she was alone.  “I have done him,” she thought to herself, “because ten million years in eternity is nothing.  He might just as well have said one second as ten million years, since anything less than eternity in eternity is nothing.  It is curious how stupid the devil is in spite of all his experience.  Now I must think about my invitations.”

II