We were standing, Lady Mickleham and I, at a door which led from the
morning room to the terrace at The Towers. I was on a visit to the
historic pile (by Vanbrugh--out of the money accumulated by the third
Earl--Paymaster to the Forces--temp. Queen Anne). The morning room is
a large room. Archie was somewhere in it. Lady Mickleham held a jar
containing pate de foie gras; from time to time she dug a piece out with
a fork and flung the morsel to a big retriever which was sitting on the
terrace. The morning was fine, but cloudy. Lady Mickleham wore blue. The
dog swallowed the pate with greediness.
“It’s so bad for him,” sighed she; “but the dear likes it so much.”
“How human the creatures are,” said I.
“Do you know,” pursued Lady Mickleham, “that the Dowager says I’m
extravagant. She thinks dogs ought not to be fed on pate de foie gras.”
“Your extravagance,” I observed, “is probably due to your having been
brought up on a moderate income. I have felt the effect myself.”
“Of course,” said Dolly, “we are hit by the agricultural depression.”
“The Carters also,” I murmured, “are landed gentry.”
“After all, I don’t see much point in economy, do you, Mr. Carter?”
“Economy,” I remarked, putting my hands in my pockets, “is going without
something you do want in case you should, some day, want something which
you probably won’t want.”
“Isn’t that clever?” asked Dolly in an apprehensive tone.
“Oh, dear, no,” I answered reassuringly. “Anybody can do that--if they
care to try, you know.”
Dolly tossed a piece of pate to the retriever.
“I have made a discovery lately,” I observed.
“What are you two talking about?” called Archie.
“You’re not meant to hear,” said Dolly, without turning round.
“Yet, if it’s a discovery, he ought to hear it.”
“He’s made a good many lately,” said Dolly.
She dug out the last bit of pate, flung it to the dog, and handed the
empty pot to me.
“Don’t be so allegorical,” I implored. “Besides, it’s really not just to
Archie. No doubt the dog is a nice one, but--”
“How foolish you are this morning! What’s the discovery?”
“An entirely surprising one.”
“Oh, but let me hear! It’s nothing about Archie, is it?”
“No, I’ve told you all Archie’s sins.”
“Nor Mrs. Hilary? I wish it was Mrs. Hilary!”
“Shall we walk on the terrace?” I suggested.
“Oh, yes, let’s,” said Dolly, stepping out, and putting on a
broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, which she caught up from a chair hard
by. “It isn’t Mrs. Hilary?” she added, sitting down on a garden seat.
“No,” said I, leaning on a sundial which stood by the seat.
“Well, what is it?”
“It is simple,” said I, “and serious. It is not, therefore, like you,
Lady Mickleham.”
“It’s like Mrs. Hilary,” said Dolly.
“No; because it isn’t pleasant. By the way, you are jealous of Mrs.
Hilary?”
Dolly said nothing at all. She took off her hat, roughened her hair a
little, and assumed an effective pose. Still, it is a fact (for what it
is worth) that she doesn’t care much about Mrs. Hilary.
“The discovery,” I continued, “is that I’m growing middle-aged.”
“You are middle-aged,” said Dolly, spearing her hat with its long pin.