Carrie and I were placidly surveying, from either end of my little
dining-table, the creditable wreck we had made of a rather neat little
dinner. Carrie never disdains this hour of the animal, at whatever table
fortune shall place her; and when she does me the honour to dine with
me, she generally pays me the compliment of evident enjoyment. It is a
feature I admire in her.
I was making leisurely coffee arrangements with my latest bachelor
acquisition, a pretty little silver and spirit affair, that did not
necessitate rising from a comfortable seat; while my sister purred in
soft content. I moved the shaded lamp aside to see her better--Carrie is
a very presentable young woman; I thought her arms decidedly pretty.
“I think, Rol,” she said, as I looked carefully to the coffee, “I
think--we will not grace the theatre this evening. It’s such a wet
night, and I’m so comfy here.”
I could hear the rain without getting up. It was a wet night; and she
did look comfy.
“Very well, my dear sister,” I replied. “As you please. It will save me
a sovereign, unless you succeed in coaxing it out of me during the
evening, which I have no doubt is your real motive.”
“No, Rol, really I don’t want----”
“Not enough, eh? Haven’t got it, my dear--this is good coffee,
Caroline,--I’m really as poor as Hooley. There, that’s right. _Kümmel
avec, n’est ce pas_, my dear?”
“Please. No, Rol, we’ll sit here and be nice all the evening. I’ll bring
my writing in--may I?”
I was only half convinced it wasn’t money; she was after something.
Carrie’s writing is her one affectation, with which exception she is as
sane as would be expected of my sister.
I believe it was a modern comedy which was then occupying the years of
her youth, and whose production was to be the crown of her old age. She
worked at it intermittently, that is to say, when there were no calls to
receive or to be made, when she could find nobody to take her to a
theatre or a garden-party, when there were no women to gossip with, or
men to fascinate--whenever, in short, she felt dull. But of late she had
seemed to recover interest in it--had recast it, she said.
“Bring it in, by all means,” I replied, “but bring a dictionary as well;
I’m not absolute in spelling.”
“Thank you, Rollo.”
Why the deuce was she so uncommonly polite? She usually announced that
she was going to spend the evening with me in much less considerate
terms. I shook my head apprehensively.
When dinner was removed Carrie disappeared, and presently re-entered
with an armful of comedy and a mouthful of quill pens. She made a clean
sweep of my desk and settled herself with many quirks and little graces
before the recast masterpiece. I gravely asked her permission to smoke,
and she, smiling at the superfluity of the question, bowed a ceremonious
assent; then got down to business, and chewed a pink knuckle in the
stress of composition.
I put my feet upon a chair, lighted a cigar, and looked alternately at
the fire and at Caroline. She made my room appear very comfortable, with
her evening frock and pretty airs. She was an excellent housekeeper, and
kept my half of our little flat almost as dainty as her own. We got
along very cosily, Carrie and I--for a sister, she behaved very well
indeed. She could have the sovereign if she wanted it; I only hoped it
was no worse.
By and by Carrie looked up meditatively, started on a fresh knuckle, and
then turned to me.
“What do men talk about after dinner, Rol, when the women have left?”
she asked.