“When did you forget it, Mr. Carter?”
“The day you were buried,” I rejoined.
“I see. Well, you said then what you couldn’t possibly have meant.”
“I dare say. I often did.”
“That they were--”
“That what were?”
“Why, the--the--what we’re talking about.”
“What we were--? Oh, to be sure, the--the blemishes?”
“Yes, the blemishes. You said they were the most--”
“Oh, well, it was a facon de parler.”
“I was afraid you weren’t a bit sincere,” said Dolly humbly.
“Well, judge by yourself,” said I with a candid air.
“But I said nothing!” cried Dolly.
“It was incomparably the most artistic thing to do,” said I.
“I’m sometimes afraid you don’t do me justice, Mr. Carter,” remarked
Dolly with some pathos.
I did not care to enter upon that discussion, and a pause followed. Then
Dolly, in a timid manner, asked me--
“Do you remember the dreadful thing that happened the same evening?”
“That chances to remain in my memory,” I admitted.
“I’ve always thought it kind of you never to speak of it,” said she.
“It is best forgotten,” said I, smiling.
“We should have said the same about anybody,” protested Dolly.
“Certainly. We were only trying to be smart,” said I.
“And it was horribly unjust.”
“I quite agree with you, Lady Mickleham.”
“Besides, I didn’t know anything about him then. He had only arrived
that day, you see.”
“Really we were not to blame,” I urged.
“Oh, but doesn’t it seem funny?”
“A strange whirligig, no doubt,” I mused.
There was a pause. Then the faintest of smiles appeared on Dolly’s face.
“He shouldn’t have worn such clothes,” she said, as though in self
defense. “Anybody would have looked absurd in them.”
“It was all the clothes,” I agreed. “Besides, when a man doesn’t know a
place, he always moons about and looks--”
“Yes. Rather awkward, doesn’t he, Mr. Carter?”
“And the mere fact of his looking at you--”
“At us, please.”
“Is nothing, although we made a grievance of it at the time.”
“That was very absurd of you,” said Dolly.
“It was certainly unreasonable of us,” said I.
“We ought have known he was a gentleman.”
“But we scouted the idea of it,” said I.
“It was a most curious mistake to make,” said Dolly.
“O, well, it’s put right now,” said I.
“Oh, Mr. Carter, do you remember mamma’s face when we described him?”
“That was a terrible moment,” said I, with a shudder.
“I said he was--ugly,” whispered Dolly.
“And I said--something worse,” murmured I.
“And mamma knew at once from our description that it was--”
“She saw it in a minute,” said I.
“And then you went away.”
“Well, I rather suppose I did,” said I.
“Mamma is just a little like the Dowager sometimes,” said Dolly.
“There is a touch now and then,” I conceded.
“And when I was introduced to him the next day I absolutely blushed.”
“I don’t altogether wonder at that,” I observed.
“But it wasn’t as if he’d heard what we were saying.”
“No; but he’d seen what we were doing.”
“Well, what were we doing?” cried Dolly defiantly.
“Conversing confidentially,” said I.
“And a week later you went home!”
“Just one week later,” said I.
There was a long pause.
“Well, you’ll take me to the theater?” asked Dolly, with something
which, if I were so disposed, I might consider a sigh.
“I’ve seen the piece twice,” said I.
“How tiresome of you! You’ve seen everything twice.”
“I’ve seen some things much oftener,” I observed.
“I’ll get a nice girl for you to talk to, and I’ll have a young man.”
“I don’t want my girl to be too nice,” I observed.
“She shall be pretty,” said Dolly generously.
“I don’t mind if I do come with you,” said I. “What becomes of Archie?”
“He’s going to take his mother and his sisters to the Albert Hall.”
My face brightened.
“I am unreasonable,” I admitted.
“Sometimes you are,” said Dolly.
“I have much to be thankful for. Have you ever observed a small boy eat
a penny ice?”
“Of course I have,” said Dolly.
“What does he do when he’s finished it?”
“Stop, I suppose.”
“On the contrary,” said I, “he licks the glass.”
“Yes, he does,” said Dolly meditatively.
“It’s not so bad--licking the glass,” said I.
Dolly stood opposite me, smiling. At this moment Archie entered. He had
been working at his lathe. He is very fond of making things which he
doesn’t want, and then giving them to people who have no use for them.
“How are you, old chap?” he began. “I’ve just finished an uncommon
pretty--”