The next morning Pelleas and I sat before our drawing-room fire talking
over our amazing trip to Inglese.
“In that love affair of yesterday,” Pelleas said sadly, “we were good
for absolutely nothing.”
“Ah, well, now,” I protested feebly, “we chaperoned.”
“Chaperons,” Pelleas said sententiously, “are nothing, _per se_.
Chaperons are merely the evidence that everything is not seen.”
“At least,” said I, “that arietta of the _Inutile Precauzione_ gives
great charm to ‘The Barber.’”
“I know,” Pelleas assented; “so does the property man. But I should
like us to be really good for something on our own account. In some
pleasant affair or other--I don’t greatly care what.”