"Haven't I been rather discursive?" he had asked of her. "I don't think
so," she had curtly contradicted. Forsooth, she didn't think that
he had been discursive. She was rather disappointed. The brilliant
verbal fireworks she had been taught by her brother to expect from
Ulick had fizzled--she thought. It was only that night, after she had
put Dolly to sleep, that she assembled her memories of the afternoon
and then she realized the conversation might be truthfully described
as discursive; fragmentary would be a better word. He is nice, she
ruminated. Now you dear naughty dolly don't you pretend to be asleep
when I see one of your eyes watching me ... little sneak, I believe
you are jealous.... Oh! he is so nice Dolly.... She buried her face in
the cool bed linen--There! I'll whip you for your mean jealousy--I'm
fond of Ulick--my great Jewel of a man.... Dolly's head was lost under
a pillow. Mona fell into a dreamless slumber.... She said nothing
next morning to her mother about the impromptu luncheon and casually
remarked that she would go for a walk in the afternoon, not far, she
added. She didn't think it necessary to tell that she was going to the
Metropolitan Museum, a few blocks away, there to meet Ulick Invern, who
had promised to show her Manet's "Boy with a Sword" and to describe the
personality of the painter, with whom he had been acquainted in Paris.
It was to be a glorious afternoon devoted entirely to art. Ulick was so
artistic and she so ignorant....