“You never told me what a--what she was like, Sam. Wanted to keep it to
yourself, you old dog.”
“George--George--George!” said I. “You go up tomorrow?”
“Yes, confound it!”
“And term lasts two months?”
“Yes, hang it!”
“All is well,” said I, crossing my legs. “There is more virtue in two
months than in Ten Commandments.”
George regarded me with a dispassionate air.
“You’re an awful ass sometimes,” he observed critically, and he rose
from his seat.
“Must you go?” said I.
“Yes--got a lot of things to do. Look here, Sam, don’t go and talk
about--”
“Talk about what?”
“Anything, you old idiot,” said George, with a pleased smile, and he dug
me in the ribs with his cane, and departed.
I sat on, admiring the simple elements which constitute the happiness of
the young. Alas! With advancing years, Wrong loses half its flavor! To
be improper ceases, by itself, to satisfy.
Immersed in these reflections, I failed to notice that a barouche had
stopped opposite to me; and suddenly I found a footman addressing me.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “Her ladyship wishes to speak to you.”
“It is a blessed thing to be young, Martin,” I observed.
“Yes, sir,” said Martin. “It’s a fine day, sir.”
“But very short,” said I. Martin is respectful, and said nothing--to me,
at least. What he said to the coachman, I don’t know.
And then I went up to Dolly.
“Get in and drive round,” suggested Dolly.
“I can’t,” said I. “I have a bad nose.”
“What’s the matter with your nose?” asked Dolly, smiling.
“The joint is injured,” said I, getting into the barouche. And I added
severely, “I suppose I’d better sit with my back to the horses?”
“Oh, no, you’re not my husband,” said Dolly. “Sit here;” and she made
room by her, as she continued, “I rather like Mr. George.”
“I’m ashamed of you,” I observed. “Considering your age--”
“Mr. Carter!”
“Considering, I say, his age, your conduct is scandalous. I shall never
introduce any nice boys to you again.”
“Oh, please do,” said Dolly, clasping her hands.
“You give them roses,” said I, accusingly. “You make them false to their
earliest loves--”
“She was a pudding-faced thing,” observed Dolly.
I frowned. Dolly, by an accident, allowed the tip of her finger to touch
my arm for an instant.
“He’s a nice boy,” said she. “How like he is to you, Mr. Carter!”
“I am a long way past that,” said I. “I am thirty-six.”
“If you mean to be disagreeable!” said she turning away. “I beg your
pardon for touching you, Mr. Carter.”
“I did not notice it, Lady Mickleham.”
“Would you like to get out?”
“It’s miles from my club,” said I discontentedly.
“He’s such fun,” said Dolly, with a sudden smile. “He told Archie that I
was the most charming woman in London! You’ve never done that!”
“He said the same about the pudding-faced girl,” I observed.
There was a pause. Then Dolly asked:
“How is your nose?”
“The carriage exercise is doing it good,” said I.
“If,” observed Dolly, “he is so silly, now, what will he be at your
age?”
“A wise man,” said I.
“He suggested that I might write to him,” bubbled Dolly.
Now when Dolly bubbles--an operation which includes a sudden turn
towards me, a dancing of eyes, a dart of a small hand, a hurried rush of
words, checked and confused by a speedier gust of gurgling sound--I am
in the habit of ceasing to argue the question. Bubbling is not to be met
by arguing. I could only say:
“He’ll have forgotten by the end of the term.”
“He’ll remember two days later,” retorted Dolly.
“Stop the carriage,” said I. “I shall tell Mrs. Hilary all about it.”
“I won’t stop the carriage,” said Dolly. “I’m going to take you home with
me.”
“I am at a premium today,” I said sardonically.
“One must have something,” said Dolly. “How is your nose now, Mr.
Carter?”