“Bassishaw’s sword would be a good deal mightier than his pen,” I
replied. “To see him in the throes of composition is a felicity I have
hitherto missed. Now here’s another: to Caroline, on the same occasion.
That, Millicent, cost me some trouble to write, and I am afraid it
showed it--I have only one sister, you know. Unposted.”
“That was rather nice of you, Rollo,” she said.
“I should only have given myself away,” I returned. “Now this, to Mrs.
Bassishaw, is one of two--the other one was posted. It was a hard
alternative. I sent the usual nice thing; Mrs. Bassishaw would
understand that. This”--I tapped the envelope--“would have appeared
difficult to a widow still young, and still in the running with her own
son.”
Millicent nodded. There were reasons for Mrs. Bassishaw’s conduct which
her relatives approved and her friends condoned.
“These,” I continued, turning over two or three, “are small ebullitions
that served their end in leaving me in a better temper; and in one at
least of them I evaded a state of mind in which I was feeling very sorry
for myself. It is a good game, don’t you think?”
“Excellent,” she returned, “from the point of view of your future
biographer. I suppose you have one eye on the memoir-writer, Rollo. Is
your statue to be equestrian?”