“I have in the house at present,” I replied, “several morning suits, a
Norfolk jacket, evening wear, pink silk----”
She tapped impatiently with her foot, shaking a sliver of little drops
from the hem of her gown.
“Or perhaps fishing attire would be----?”
“Don’t be ponderous. Where’s Caroline?”
“Caroline, Miss Dixon, is out with Arthur, and will doubtless return in
much the same state of rainwater as yourself.”
She disappeared towards Carrie’s quarters, her dress making a wet slap
on the door as she whisked round. I rose to prepare brandy during her
absence.
It should be mentioned that I was confined to my room with a slight
attack of rheumatism, which my considerate friends persisted in
regarding as gout. As a matter of fact the affection was purely
muscular, and I indignantly repudiated the fuller flavour of the alleged
complaint. My portliness must not be confounded with decadence.
Disconsolately enough, I had been fingering and sorting old letters,
turning out drawer after drawer of forgotten trifles, and feeling none
the younger in consequence. It was borne in upon me that I had a
history, or some record of trivialities that passed as such; and these
little drifted relics of the past had curiously discounted the glamour
of what was going to happen to-morrow. Except for the unexpected shower,
I should probably have been left to this melancholy occupation all day;
and Millicent’s forced visit was very welcome.
She reappeared in garments of Caroline’s, passable in style, but with
marked qualifications in the fit. She tops Caroline by three inches. I
had often wondered idly where that three inches was accounted for, and
how it was distributed. I knew now.