“Why not go with Archie?” I asked, spreading out my hands.
“It will be dull enough, anyhow,” said Dolly, fretfully. “Besides, it’s
awfully bourgeois to go to the theater with one’s husband.”
“Bourgeois,” I observed, “is an epithet which the riffraff apply to what
is respectable, and the aristocracy to what is decent.”
“But it’s not a nice thing to be, all the same,” said Dolly, who is
impervious to the most penetrating remark.
“You’re in no danger of it,” I hastened to assure her.
“How should you describe me, then?” she asked, leaning forward, with a
smile.
“I should describe you, Lady Mickleham,” I replied discreetly, “as being
a little lower than the angels.”
Dolly’s smile was almost a laugh as she asked:
“How much lower, please, Mr. Carter?”
“Just by the depth of your dimples,” said I thoughtlessly.
Dolly became immensely grave.
“I thought,” said she, “that we never mentioned them now, Mr. Carter.”
“Did we ever?” I asked innocently.
“I seemed to remember once: do you recollect being in very low spirits
one evening at Monte?”
“I remember being in very low water more than one evening there.”
“Yes; you told me you were terribly hard-up.”
“There was an election in our division that year,” I remarked, “and I
remitted 30 percent of my rents.”
“You did--to M. Blanc,” said Dolly. “Oh, and you were very dreary! You
said you’d wasted your life and your time and your opportunities.”
“Oh, you mustn’t suppose I never have any proper feelings,” said I
complacently.
“I think you were hardly yourself.”
“Do be more charitable.”
“And you said that your only chance was in gaining the affection of--”
“Surely, I was not such an--so foolish?” I implored.
“Yes, you were. You were sitting close by me--”
“Oh, then, it doesn’t count,” said I, rallying a little.
“On a bench. You remember the bench?”
“No, I don’t,” said I, with a kind but firm smile.
“Not the bench?”
“No.”