“Impossible!” said I firmly.
“O, but why, Mr. Carter?”
“There would be an end of our friendship.”
“Do you think as badly of me as all that?” asked Dolly with a rueful
air.
I leant back in my chair, and looked at Dolly. She looked at me. She
smiled. I may have smiled.
“Yes,” said I.
“Then you needn’t write it quite all down,” said Dolly.
“I am obliged,” said I, taking up my pen.
“You mustn’t say what isn’t true, but you needn’t say everything that
is--that might be--true,” explained Dolly.
This, again, seemed satisfactory. I began to write, Dolly sitting
opposite me with her elbows on the table, and watching me.
After ten minutes’ steady work, which included several pauses for
reflection, I threw down the pen, leant back in my chair, and lit a
cigarette.
“Now read it,” said Dolly, her chin in her hands and her eyes fixed on
me.
“It is, on the whole,” I observed, “complimentary.”
“No, really,” said Dolly. “Yet you promised to be sincere.”
“You would not have had me disagreeable?” I asked.
“That’s a different thing,” said Dolly. “Read it, please.”
“Lady Mickleham,” I read, “is usually accounted a person of considerable
attractions. She is widely popular, and more than one woman has been
known to like her.”
“I don’t quite understand that,” interrupted Dolly.
“It is surely simple,” said I; and I read on without delay. “She is
kind even to her husband, and takes the utmost pains to conceal from her
mother-in-law anything calculated to distress that lady.”
“I suppose you mean that to be nice?” said Dolly.
“Of course,” I answered; and I proceeded: “She never gives pain to any
one, except with the object of giving pleasure to somebody else, and her
kindness is no less widely diffused than it is hearty and sincere.”
“That really is nice,” said Dolly, smiling.
“Thank you,” said I, smiling also. “She is very charitable; she takes a
pleasure in encouraging the shy and bashful--”
“How do you know that?” asked Dolly.
“While,” I pursued, “suffering without impatience a considerable amount
of self-assurance.”
“You can’t know whether I’m patient or not,” remarked Dolly. “I’m
polite.”
“She thinks,” I read on, “no evil of the most attractive of women, and
has a smile for the most unattractive of men.”
“You put that very nicely,” said Dolly, nodding.
“The former may constantly be seen in her house--and the latter at least
as often as many people would think desirable.” (Here for some reason
Dolly laughed.) “Her intellectual powers are not despicable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”
“She can say what she means on the occasions on which she wishes to do
so, and she is, at other times, equally capable of meaning much more
than she would be likely to say.”
“How do you mean that, Mr. Carter, please?”
“It explains itself,” said I, and I proceeded: “The fact of her
receiving a remark with disapprobation does not necessarily mean that it
causes her displeasure, nor must it be assumed that she did not expect a
visitor merely on the ground that she greets him with surprise.”
Here I observed Lady Mickleham looking at me rather suspiciously.
“I don’t think that’s quite nice of you, Mr. Carter,” she said
pathetically.
“Lady Mickleham is, in short,” I went on, coming to my peroration,
“equally deserving of esteem and affection--”
“Esteem and affection! That sounds just right,” said Dolly approvingly.
“And those who have been admitted to the enjoyment of her friendship are
unanimous in discouraging all others from seeking a similar privilege.”
“I beg your pardon?” cried Lady Mickleham.
“Are unanimous,” I repeated, slowly and distinctly, “in discouraging all
others from seeking a similar privilege.”
Dolly looked at me, with her brow slightly puckered. I leant back,
puffing at my cigarette. Presently--for there was quite a long
pause--Dolly’s lips curved.
“My mental powers are not despicable,” she observed.
“I have said so,” said I.
“I think I see,” she remarked.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked anxiously.
“N-no,” said Dolly, “not exactly wrong. In fact, I rather think I like
that last bit best. Still, don’t you think--?”
She rose, came round the table, took up the pen, and put it back in my
hand. “What’s this for?” I asked.
“To correct the mistake,” said Dolly.
“Do you really think so?” said I.
“I’m afraid so,” said Dolly.