“No, not lately.”
I caught sight of his face behind her back and I thought I saw a trace
of puzzle--nothing more. He held out his hand.
“Well, so glad to have seen you, Miss Phaeton,” said he, “but I must run
on. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Gay,” said she.
And, lifting his hat again, smiling again gayly, he was gone. For a
moment or two I said nothing. Then I remarked:
“So that’s your friend Gay, is it? He’s not a bad-looking fellow.”
“Yes, that’s him,” said she, and, as she spoke, she sank back in her
seat for a moment. I did not look at her face. Then she sat up straight
again and took the whip.
“Want to stay any longer?” she asked.
“No,” said I.
The little groom sprang away, Rhino and Ready dashed ahead.
“Shall I drop you at the club?” she asked. “I’m goin’ home.”
“I’ll get out here,” said I.
We came to a stand again, and I got down.
“Goodbye,” I said.
She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage was
tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for dear life.
Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least suited to him; she’d
make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it seems a little
perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least between the courses at
dinner I caught myself being sorry for her. It is, when you think of it,
so remarkably perverse.