“You’re quite serious about it, aren’t you?” said Dolly.
“I should think I was,” said I indignantly. “Not to be serious in such a
matter is to waste it utterly.”
“I’ll come to the wedding,” said Dolly.
“There won’t be a wedding,” said I. “There are Reasons.”
“Oh! You’re very unlucky, Mr. Carter.”
“That,” I observed, “is as it may be, Lady Mickleham.”
“Were the Reasons at the reception?”
“They were. It made no difference.”
“It’s very curious,” remarked Dolly with a compassionate air, “that you
always manage to admire people whom somebody else has married.”
“It would be very curious,” I rejoined, “if somebody had not married the
people whom I admire. Last night, though, I made nothing of his sudden
removal; my fancy rioted in accidental deaths for him.”
“He won’t die,” said Dolly.
“I hate that sort of superstition,” said I irritably. “He’s just as
likely to die as any other man is.”
“He certainly won’t die,” said Dolly.
“Well, I know he won’t. Do let it alone,” said I, much exasperated. It
was probably only kindness, but Dolly suddenly turned her eyes away from
me and fixed them on the fire; she took the fan up again and twirled it
in her hand; a queer little smile bent her lips.
“I hope the poor man won’t die,” said Dolly in a low voice.
“If he had died last night!” I cried longingly. Then, with a regretful
shrug of my shoulders, I added, “Let him live now to the crack of doom!”
Somehow this restored my good humor. I rose and stood with my back to
the fire, stretching myself and sighing luxuriously. Dolly leant back in
her chair and laughed at me.
“Do you expect to be forgiven?” she asked.
“No, no,” said I; “I had too good an excuse.”
“I wish I’d been there--at the reception, I mean.”
“I’m extremely glad you weren’t, Lady Mickleham. As it was I forgot all
my troubles.”
Dolly is not resentful; she did not mind the implied description. She
leant back, smiling still. I sighed again, smiled at Dolly, and took
my hat. Then I turned to the mirror over the mantelpiece, arranged my
necktie, and gave my hair a touch.
“No one,” I observed, “can afford to neglect the niceties of the toilet.
Those dainty little curls on the forehead--”
“You’ve had none there for ten years,” cried Lady Mickleham.
“I did not mean my forehead,” said I.
Sighing once again, I held out my hand to Dolly.
“Are you doing anything this evening?” she asked.
“That depends on what I’m asked to do,” said I cautiously.
“Well, Archie’s going to be at the House, and I thought you might take
me to the Phaetons’ party. It’s quite a long drive, a horrible long
drive, Mr. Carter.”