The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDolly DialoguesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Dolly DialoguesAuthor: Anthony HopeRelease date: February 1, 1998 [eBook #1203]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Theresa Armao, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOLLY DIALOGUES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Dolly DialoguesAuthor: Anthony HopeRelease date: February 1, 1998 [eBook #1203]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Theresa Armao, and David Widger
Title: Dolly Dialogues
Author: Anthony Hope
Author: Anthony Hope
Release date: February 1, 1998 [eBook #1203]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Theresa Armao, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOLLY DIALOGUES ***
CONTENTSA LIBERAL EDUCATIONCORDIAL RELATIONSRETRIBUTIONTHE PERVERSENESS OF ITA MATTER OF DUTYMY LAST CHANCETHE LITTLE WRETCHAN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGEA VERY DULL AFFAIRSTRANGE, BUT TRUETHE VERY LATEST THINGAN UNCOUNTED HOURA REMINISCENCEA VERY FINE DAYTHE HOUSE OPPOSITEA QUICK CHANGEA SLIGHT MISTAKETHE OTHER LADYWHAT MIGHT HAVE BEENONE WAY IN
CONTENTS
A LIBERAL EDUCATION
CORDIAL RELATIONS
RETRIBUTION
THE PERVERSENESS OF IT
A MATTER OF DUTY
MY LAST CHANCE
THE LITTLE WRETCH
AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE
A VERY DULL AFFAIR
STRANGE, BUT TRUE
THE VERY LATEST THING
AN UNCOUNTED HOUR
A REMINISCENCE
A VERY FINE DAY
THE HOUSE OPPOSITE
A QUICK CHANGE
A SLIGHT MISTAKE
THE OTHER LADY
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
ONE WAY IN
“There’s ingratitude for you!” Miss Dolly Foster exclaimed suddenly.
“Where!” I asked, rousing myself from meditation.
She pointed to a young man who had just passed where we sat. He was dressed very smartly, and was walking with a lady attired in the height of the fashion.
“I made that man,” said Dolly, “and now he cuts me dead before the whole of the Row! It’s atrocious. Why, but for me, do you suppose he’d be at this moment engaged to three thousand a year and—and the plainest girl in London?”
“Not that,” I pleaded; “think of—”
“Well, very plain anyhow. I was quite ready to bow to him. I almost did.”
“In fact you did?”
“I didn’t. I declare I didn’t.”
“Oh, well, you didn’t then. It only looked like it.”
“I met him,” said Miss Dolly, “three years ago. At that time he was—oh, quite unpresentable. He was everything he shouldn’t be. He was a teetotaler, you know, and he didn’t smoke, and he was always going to concerts. Oh, and he wore his hair long, and his trousers short, and his hat on the back of his head. And his umbrella—”
“Where did he wear that?”
“He carried that, Mr. Carter. Don’t be silly! Carried it unrolled, you know, and generally a paper parcel in the other hand; and he had spectacles too.”
“He has certainly changed, outwardly at least.
“Yes, I know; well, I did that. I took him in hand, and I just taught him, and now—!”
“Yes, I know that. But how did you teach him? Give him Saturday evening lectures, or what?”
“Oh, every-evening lectures, and most-morning walks. And I taught him to dance, and broke his wretched fiddle with my own hands!”
“What very arbitrary distinctions you draw!”
“I don’t know that you mean. I do like a man to be smart, anyhow. Don’t you, Mr. Carter? You’re not so smart as you might be. Now, shall I take you in hand?” And she smiled upon me.
“Let’s hear your method. What did you do to him?”
“To Phil Meadows? Oh, nothing. I just slipped in a remark here and there, whenever he talked nonsense. I used to speak just at the right time, you know.”
“But how had your words such influence, Miss Foster?”
“Oh, well, you know, Mr. Carter, I made it a condition that he should do just what I wanted in little things like that. Did he think I was going to walk about with a man carrying a brown paper parcel—as if we had been to the shop for a pound of tea?”
“Still, I don’t see why he should alter all his—”
“Oh, you are stupid! Of course, he liked me, you know.”
“Oh, did he? I see.”
“You seem to think that very funny.”
“Not that he did—but that, apparently, he doesn’t.”
“Well you got out of that rather neatly—for you. No, he doesn’t now. You see, he misunderstood my motive. He thought—well, I do believe he thought I cared for him, you know. Of course I didn’t.”
“Not a bit?”
“Just as a friend—and a pupil, you know. And when he’d had his hair cut and bought a frock coat (fancy he’d never had one!), he looked quite nice. He has nice eyes. Did you notice them.”
“Lord, no!”
“Well, you’re so unobservant.”
“Oh, not always. I’ve observed that your—”
“Please don’t! It’s no use, is it?”
I looked very unhappy. There is an understanding that I am very unhappy since Miss Foster’s engagement to the Earl of Mickleham was announced.
“What was I saying before—before you—you know—oh, about Phil Meadows, of course. I did like him very much, you know, or I shouldn’t have taken all that trouble. Why, his own mother thanked me!”
“I have no more to say,” said I.
“But she wrote me a horrid letter afterward.”
“You’re so very elliptical.”
“So very what, Mr. Carter?”
“You leave so much out, I mean. After what?”
“Why, after I sent him away. Didn’t I tell you? Oh, we had the most awful scene. He raved, Mr. Carter. He called me the most horrid names, and—”
“Tore his hair?”
“It wasn’t long enough to get hold of,” she tittered. “But don’t laugh. It was really dreadful. And so unjust! And then, next day, when I thought it was comfortably over, you know, he came back, and—and apologized, and called himself the most awful names, and—well, that was really worse.”
“What did the fellow complain of?” I asked in wondering tones.
“Oh, he said I’d destroyed his faith in women, you know, and that I’d led him on, and that I was—well, he was very rude indeed. And he went on writing me letters like that for a whole year? It made me quite uncomfortable.”
“But he didn’t go back to short trousers and a fiddle, did he?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, no. But he forgot all he owed me, and he told me that his heart was dead, and that he should never love any one again.”
“But he’s going to marry that girl.”
“Oh, he doesn’t care about her,” said Miss Dolly reassuringly. “It’s the money, you know. He hadn’t a farthing of his own. Now he’ll be set up for life.”
“And it’s all due to you!” said I admiringly.
“Well, it is, really.”
“I don’t call her such a bad-looking girl, though.” (I hadn’t seen her face.)
“Mr. Carter! She’s hideous!”
I dropped that subject.
“And now,” said Miss Dolly again, “he cuts me dead!”
“It is the height of ingratitude. Why, to love you was a liberal education!”
“Yes, wasn’t it? How nicely you put that. A liberal education!’ I shall tell Archie.” (Archie is Lord Mickleham.)
“What, about Phil Meadows?”
“Goodness me, no, Mr. Carter. Just what you said, you know.”
“But why not tell Mickleham about Phil Meadows?” I urged. “It’s all to your credit, you know.”
“I know, but men are so foolish. You see, Archie thinks—”
“Of course he does.”
“You might let me finish.”
“Archie thinks you were never in love before.”
“Yes, he does. Well, of course, I wasn’t in love with Phil—”
“Not a little bit?”
“Oh, well—”
“Nor with any one else?”
Miss Dolly looked for an instant in my direction.
“Nor with any one else?” said I.
Miss Dolly looked straight in front of her.
“Nor with—” I began.
“Hullo, old chappie, where did you spring from?”
“Why, Archie!” cried Miss Dolly.
“Oh, how are you, Mickleham, old man? Take this seat; I’m just off—just off. Yes, I was, upon my honor—got to meet a man at the club. Goodbye, Miss Foster. Jove! I’m late!”
And as I went I heard Miss Dolly say, “I thought you were never coming, Archie, dear!” Well, she didn’t think he was coming just then. No more did I.
The other day I paid a call on Miss Dolly Foster for the purpose of presenting to her my small offering on the occasion of her marriage to Lord Mickleham. It was a pretty little bit of jewelry—a pearl heart, broken (rubies played the part of blood) and held together by a gold pin, set with diamonds, the whole surmounted by an earl’s coronet. I had taken some trouble about it, and was grateful when Miss Dolly asked me to explain the symbolism.
“It is my heart,” I observed. “The fracture is your making; the pin—”
Here Miss Dolly interrupted; to tell the truth I was not sorry, for I was fairly graveled for the meaning of the pin.
“What nonsense, Mr. Carter!” she said; “but it’s awfully pretty. Thanks so very very much. Aren’t relations funny people?”
“If you wish to change the subject, pray do,” said I. “I’ll change anything except my affections.”
“Look here,” she pursued, holding out a bundle of letters. “Here are the congratulatory epistles from relations. Shall I read you a few?”
“It will be a most agreeable mode of passing the time,” said I.
“This is from Aunt Georgiana—she’s a widow—lives at Cheltenham. ‘My dearest Dorothea—‘”
“Who?”
“Dorothea’s my name, Mr. Carter. It means the gift of heaven, you know.”
“‘My dearest Dorothea, I have heard the news of your engagement to Lord Mickleham with deep thankfulness. To obtain the love of an honest man is a great prize. I hope you will prove worthy of it. Marriage is a trial and an opportunity—‘”
“Hear, hear!” said I. “A trial for the husband and—”
“Be quiet, Mr. Carter. ‘A trial and an opportunity. It searches the heart and affords a sphere of usefulness which—’ So she goes on, you know. I don’t see why I need be lectured just because I’m going to be married, do you, Mr. Carter?”
“Let’s try another,” said I. “Who’s that on pink paper?”
“Oh, that’s Georgy Vane. She’s awful fun. ‘Dear old Dolly,—So you’ve brought it off. Hearty congrats. I thought you were going to be silly and throw away—’ There’s nothing else there, Mr. Carter. Look here. Listen to this. It’s from Uncle William. He’s a clergyman, you know. ‘My dear Niece,—I have heard with great gratification of your engagement. Your aunt and I unite in all good wishes. I recollect Lord Mickleham’s father when I had a curacy near Worcester. He was a regular attendant at church and a supporter of all good works in the diocese. If only his son takes after him (fancy Archie!) You have secured a prize. I hope you have a proper sense of the responsibilities you are undertaking. Marriage affords no small opportunities, it also entails certain trials—‘”
“Why, you’re reading Aunt Georgiana again.”
“Am I? No, it’s Uncle William.”
“Then let’s try a fresh cast—unless you’ll finish Georgy Vane’s.”
“Well, here’s Cousin Susan’s. She’s an old maid, you know. It’s very long. Here’s a bit: ‘Woman has it in her power to exercise a sacred influence. I have not the pleasure of knowing Lord Mickleham, but I hope, my dear, that you will use your power over him for good. It is useless for me to deny that when you stayed with me, I thought you were addicted to frivolity. Doubtless marriage will sober you. Try to make a good use of its lessons I am sending you a biscuit tin’—and so on.”
“A very proper letter,” said I.
Miss Dolly indulged in a slight grimace, and took up another letter.
“This,” she said, “is from my sister-in-law, Mrs. Algernon Foster.”
“A daughter of Lord Doldrums, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. ‘My dear Dorothea,—I have heard your news. I do hope it will turn out happily. I believe that any woman who conscientiously does her duty can find happiness in married life. Her husband and children occupy all her time and all her thoughts, and if she can look for few of the lighter pleasures of life, she has at least the knowledge that she is of use in the world. Please accept the accompanying volumes (it’s Browning) as a small—’ I say, Mr. Carter, do you think it’s really like that?”
“There is still time to draw back,” I observed.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Here, this is my brother Tom’s. ‘Dear Dol,—I thought Mickleham rather an ass when I met him, but I dare say you know best. What’s his place like? Does he take a moor? I thought I read that he kept a yacht. Does he? Give him my love and a kiss. Good luck, old girl. Tom. P.S.—I’m glad it’s not me, you know.’”
“A disgusting letter,” I observed.
“Not at all,” said Miss Dolly, dimpling. “It’s just like dear old Tom. Listen to grandpapa’s. ‘My dear Granddaughter,—The alliance’ (I rather like it’s being called an alliance, Mr. Carter. It sounds like the Royal Family, doesn’t it?) ‘you are about to contract is in all respects a suitable one. I send you my blessing and a small check to help towards your trousseau.—Yours affectionately, Jno. Wm. Foster.’”
“That,” said I, “is the best up to now.”
“Yes, it’s 500,” said she, smiling. “Here’s old Lady M.‘s.”
“Whose?” I exclaimed.
“Archie’s mother’s, you know. ‘My dear Dorothea (as I suppose I must call you now)—Archibald has informed us of his engagement, and I and the girls (there are five girls, Mr. Carter) hasten to welcome his bride. I am sure Archie will make his wife very happy. He is rather particular (like his dear father), but he has a good heart, and is not fidgety about his meals. Of course we shall be delighted to move out of The Towers at once. I hope we shall see a great deal of you soon. Archie is full of your praises, and we thoroughly trust his taste. Archie—’ It’s all about Archie, you see.”
“Naturally,” said I.
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose I count a little, too. Oh, look here. Here’s Cousin Fred’s, but he’s always so silly. I shan’t read you his.”
“O, just a bit of it,” I pleaded.
“Well, here’s one bit. ‘I suppose I can’t murder him, so I must wish him joy. All I can say is, Dolly, that he’s the luckiest (something I can’t read—either fellow or—devil) I ever heard of. I wonder if you’ve forgotten that evening—‘”
“Well, go on.” For she stopped.
“Oh, there’s nothing else.”
“In fact, you have forgotten the evening?”
“Entirely,” said Miss Dolly, tossing her head.
“But he sends me a love of a bracelet. He can’t possibly pay for it, poor boy.”
“Young knave!” said I severely. (I had paid for my pearl heart.)
“Then comes a lot from girls. Oh, there’s one from Maud Tottenham—she’s a second cousin, you know—it’s rather amusing. ‘I used to know your FIANCE slightly. He seemed very nice, but it’s a long while ago, and I never saw much of him. I hope he is really fond of you, and that it is not a mere fancy. Since you love him so much, it would be a pity if he did not care deeply for you.’”
“Interpret, Miss Dolly,” said I.
“She tried to catch him herself,” said Miss Dolly.
“Ah, I see. Is that all?”
“The others aren’t very interesting.”
“Then let’s finish Georgy Vane’s.”
“Really?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes. Really.”
“Oh, if you don’t mind, I don’t,” said she, laughing, and she hunted out the pink note and spread it before her.
“Let me see. Where was I? Oh, here. ‘I thought you were going to be silly and throw away your chances on some of the men who used to flirt with you. Archie Mickleham may not be a genius, but he’s a good fellow and a swell and rich; and he’s not a pauper, like Phil Meadows, or a snob like Charlie Dawson, or—’ shall I go on, Mr. Carter? No, I won’t. I didn’t see what it was.”
“Yes, you shall go on.”
“O, no, I can’t,” and she folded up the letter. “Then I will,” and I’m ashamed to say I snatched the letter. Miss Dolly jumped to her feet. I fled behind the table. She ran round. I dodged.
“‘Or’” I began to read.
“Stop!” cried she.
“‘Or a young spendthrift like that man—I forget his name—who you used to go on with at such a pace at Monte Carlo last winter.’”
“Stop!” she cried. “You must stop, Mr. Carter.”
So then I stopped. I folded the letter and handed it back to her. Her cheeks flushed red as she took it.
“I thought you were a gentleman,” said she, biting her lip.
“I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself,” said I.
“Lord Mickleham,” said the butler, throwing open the door.
In future I am going to be careful what I do. I am also—and this is by no means less important—going to be very careful what Miss Dolly Foster does. Everybody knows (if I may quote her particular friend Nellie Phaeton) that dear Dolly means no harm, but she is “just a little harumscarum.” I thanked Miss Phaeton for the expression.
The fact is that “old lady M.” (Here I quote Miss Dolly) sent for me the other day. I have not the honor of knowing the Countess, and I went in some trepidation. When I was ushered in, Lady Mickleham put up her “starers.” (You know those abominations! Pince-nez with long torture—I mean tortoise—shell handles.)
“Mr.—er—Carter?” said she.
I bowed. I would have denied it if I could.
“My dears!” said Lady Mickleham.
Upon this five young ladies who had been sitting in five straight-backed chairs, doing five pieces of embroidery, rose, bowed, and filed out of the room. I felt very nervous.
A pause followed. Then the Countess observed—and it seemed at first rather irrelevant—
“I’ve been reading an unpleasant story.”
“In these days of French influence,” I began apologetically (not that I write such stories, or any stories, but Lady Mickleham invites an apologetic attitude), and my eye wandered to the table. I saw nothing worse (or better) than the morning paper there.
“Contained in a friend’s letter,” she continued, focusing the “starers” full on my face.
I did not know what to do, so I bowed again.
“It must have been as painful for her to write as for me to read,” Lady Mickleham went on. “And that is saying much. Be seated, pray.”
I bowed, and sat down in one of the straight-back chairs. I also began, in my fright, to play with one of the pieces of embroidery.
“Is Lady Jane’s work in your way?” (Lady Jane is named after Jane, the famous Countess, Lady-in-Waiting to Caroline of Anspach.)
I dropped the embroidery, and put my foot on my hat.
“I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted with Miss Dorothea Foster?”
“I have that pleasure,” said I.
“Who is about to be married to my son, the Earl of Mickleham?”
“That, I believe, is so,” said I. I was beginning to pull myself together.
“My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting disposition. Perhaps I had better come to the point. I am informed by this letter that, in conversation with the writer the other day, Archibald mentioned, quite incidentally, some very startling facts. Those facts concern you, Mr. Carter.”
“May I ask the name of the writer?”
“I do not think that is necessary,” said she. “She is a lady in whom I have the utmost confidence.”
“That is, of course, enough,” said I.
“It appears, Mr. Carter—and you will excuse me if I speak plainly—(I set my teeth) that you have, in the first place, given to my son’s bride a wedding present, which I can only describe as—”
“A pearl ornament,” I interposed; “with a ruby or two, and—”
“A pearl heart,” she corrected; “er—fractured, and that you explained that this absurd article represented your heart.”
“Mere badinage,” said I.
“In execrably bad taste,” said she.
I bowed.
“In fact, most offensive. But that is not the worst. From my son’s further statements it appears that on one occasion, at least, he found you and Miss Foster engaged in what I can only call—”
I raised my hand in protest. The Countess took no notice.
“What I can only call romping.”
“Romping!” I cried.
“A thing not only atrociously vulgar at all times, but under the circumstances—need I say more? Mr. Carter, you were engaged in chasing my son’s future bride round a table!”
“Pardon me, Lady Mickleham. Your son’s future bride was engaged in chasing me round a table.”
“It is the same thing,” said Lady Mickleham.
“I should have thought there was a distinction,” said I.
“None at all.”
I fell back on a second line of defense.
“I didn’t let her catch me, Lady Mickleham,” I pleaded.
Lady Mickleham grew quite red. This made me feel more at my ease.
“No, sir. If you had—”
“Goodness knows!” I murmured, shaking my head.
“As it happened, however, my son entered in the middle of this disgraceful—”
“It was at the beginning,” said I, with a regretful sigh.
Upon this—and I have really never been so pleased at anything in all my life—the Countess, the violence of her emotions penetrating to her very fingers, gripped the handle of her “starers” with such force that she broke it in two! She was a woman of the world, and in a moment she looked as if nothing had happened. With me it was different; and that I am not now on Lady Mickleham’s visiting list is due to (inter alia et enormia) the fact that I laughed! It was out before I could help it. In a second I was as grave as a mute. The mischief was done. The Countess rose. I imitated her example.
“You are amused?” said she, and her tones banished the last of my mirth. I stumbled on my hat and it rolled to her feet.
“It is not probable,” she observed, “that after Miss Foster’s marriage you will meet her often. You will move in—er—somewhat different circles.”
“I may catch a glimpse of her in her carriage from the top of my ‘bus,” said I.
Lady Mickleham rang the bell. I stooped for my hat. To tell the truth, I was rather afraid to expose myself in such a defenseless attitude, but the Countess preserved her self control. The butler opened the door. I bowed, and left the Countess regarding me through the maimed “starers.” Then I found the butler smiling. He probably knew the signs of the weather. I wouldn’t be Lady Mickleham’s butler if you made me a duke.
As I walked home through the Park, I met Miss Dolly and Mickleham. They stopped.
I walked on. Mickleham seized me by the coat tails.
“Do you mean to cut us?” he cried.
“Yes,” said I.
“Why, what the deuce?—” he began.
“I’ve seen your mother,” said I. “I wish, Mickleham, that when you do happen to intrude as you did the other day, you wouldn’t repeat what you see.”
“Lord!” he cried. “She’s not heard of that. I only told Aunt Cynthia.”
I said something about “Aunt Cynthia.”
“Does—does she know it all?” asked Miss Dolly.
“More than all—much more.”
“Didn’t you smooth it over?” said Miss Dolly reproachfully.
“On reflection,” said I, “I don’t know that I did—much.” (I hadn’t, you know.)
Suddenly Mickleham burst out laughing.
“What a game!” he exclaimed.
“That’s all very well for you,” said Dolly. “But do you happen to remember that we dine there tonight?” Archie grew grave.
“I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves,” said I. “I always cling to the belief that the wicked are punished.” And I looked at Miss Dolly.
“Never you mind, little woman,” said Archie, drawing Miss Dolly’s arm through his, “I’ll see you through. After all, everybody knows that old Carter’s an ass.”
That piece of universal knowledge may help matters, but I do not quite see how. I walked on, for Miss Dolly had quite forgotten me, and was looking up at Archie Mickleham like—well, hang it, in the way they do, you know. So I just walked on.
I believe Miss Dolly has got a husband who is (let us say) good enough for her. And, for one reason and another, I am glad of it. And I also believe that she knows it. And I am—I suppose—glad of that, too. Oh, yes, of course, I am. Of course.
“I tell you what, Mr. Carter,” said Miss Nellie Phaeton, touching up Rhino with her whip, “love in a cottage is—”
“Lord forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust,” I quoted.
We were spanking round the Park behind Ready and Rhino. Miss Phaeton’s horses are very large; her groom is very small, and her courage is indomitable. I am no great hand at driving myself, and I am not always quite comfortable. Moreover, the stricter part of my acquaintance consider, I believe, that Miss Phaeton’s attentions to me are somewhat pronounced, and that I ought not to drive with her in the Park.
“You’re right,” she went on. “What a girl wants is a good house and lots of cash, and some ridin’ and a little huntin’ and—”
“A few g’s!’” I cried in shuddering entreaty. “If you love me, a g’ or two.”
“Well, I suppose so,” said she. “You can’t go ridin’ without gees, can you?”
Apparently one could go driving without any, but I did not pursue the subject.
“It’s only in stories that people are in love when they marry,” observed Miss Phaeton reflectively.
“Yes, and then it’s generally with somebody else,” said I.
“Oh, if you count that!” said she, hitting Ready rather viciously. We bounded forward, and I heard the little groom bumping on the back seat. I am always glad not to be a groom—it’s a cup-and-ball sort of life, which must be very wearying.
“Were you ever in love?” she asked, just avoiding a brougham which contained the Duchess of Dexminster. (If, by the way, I have to run into anyone, I like it to be a Duchess; you get a much handsomer paragraph.)
“Yes,” said I.
“Often?”
“Oh, not too often, and I always take great care, you know.”
“What of?”
“That it shall be quite out of the question, you know. It’s not at all difficult. I only have to avoid persons of moderate means.”
“But aren’t you a person of—?”
“Exactly. That’s why. So I choose either a pauper—when it’s impossible—or an heiress—when it’s preposterous. See?”
“But don’t you ever want to get—?” began Miss Phaeton.
“Let’s talk about something else,” said I.
“I believe you’re humbuggin’ me,” said Miss Phaeton.
“I am offering a veiled apology,” said I.
“Stuff!” said she. “You know you told Dolly Foster that I should make an excellent wife for a trainer.”
Oh, these women! A man had better talk to a phonograph.
“Or anybody else,” said I politely.
Miss Phaeton whipped up her horses.
“Look out! There’s the mounted policeman,” I cried.
“No, he isn’t. Are you afraid?” she retorted.
“I’m not fit to die,” I pleaded.
“I don’t care a pin for your opinion, you know,” she continued (I had never supposed that she did); “but what did you mean by it?”
“I never said it.”
“Oh!”
“All right—I never did.”
“Then Dolly invented it?”
“Of course,” said I steadily.
“On your honor?”
“Oh, come, Miss Phaeton!”
“Would—would other people think so?” she asked, with a highly surprising touch of timidity.
“Nobody would,” I said. “Only a snarling old wretch would say so, just because he thought it smart.”
There was a long pause. Then Miss Phaeton asked me abruptly:
“You never met him, did you?”
“No.”
A pause ensued. We passed the Duchess again, and scratched the nose of her poodle, which was looking out of the carriage window. Miss Phaeton flicked Rhino, and the groom behind went plop-plop on the seat.
“He lives in town, you know,” remarked Miss Phaeton.
“They mostly do—and write about the country,” said I.
“Why shouldn’t they?” she asked fiercely.
“My dear Miss Phaeton, by all means let them,” said I.
“He’s awfully clever, you know,” she continued; “but he wouldn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sat and said nothin’, or read a book.”
A sudden intuition discovered Mr. Gay’s feelings to me.
“You were talking about the run, or something, I suppose?”
“Yes, or the bag, you know.”
As she spoke she pulled up Ready and Rhino. The little groom jumped down and stood under (not at) their heads. I leant back and surveyed the crowd sitting and walking. Miss Phaeton flicked a fly off Rhino’s ear, put her whip in the socket, and leant back also.
“Then I suppose you didn’t care much about him?” I asked.
“Oh, I liked him pretty well,” she answered very carelessly.
At this moment, looking along the walk, I saw a man coming toward us. He was a handsome fellow, with just a touch of “softness” in his face. He was dressed in correct fashion, save that his hair was a trifle longer, his coat a trifle fuller, his hat a trifle larger, his tie a trifle looser than they were worn by most. He caught my attention, and I went on looking at him for a little while, till a light movement of my companion’s made me turn my head.
Miss Phaeton was sitting bolt upright; she fidgeted with the reins; she took her whip out of the socket and put it back again; and, to my amazement, her cheeks were very red.
Presently the man came opposite the carriage. Miss Phaeton bowed. He lifted his hat, smiled, and made as if to pass on. Miss Phaeton held out her hand. I could see a momentary gleam of surprise in his eyes, as though he thought her cordiality more than he might have looked for—possibly even more than he cared about. But he stopped and shook hands.
“How are you, Mr. Gay?” she said, not introducing me.
“Still with your inseparables!” he said gayly, with a wave of his hand towards the horses. “I hope, Miss Phaeton, that in the next world your faithful steeds will be allowed to bear you company, or what will you do?”
“O, you think I care for nothin’ but horses?” said she petulantly, but she leant towards him, and gave me her shoulder.
“O, no,” he laughed. “Dogs, also, and, I’m afraid, one day it was ferrets, wasn’t it?”
“Have—have you written any poetry lately?” she asked.
“How conscientious of you to inquire!” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. “O, yes, a hundred things. Have you—killed—anything lately?”
I could swear she flushed again. Her voice trembled as she answered:
“No, not lately.”
I caught sight of his face behind her back and I thought I saw a trace of puzzle—nothing more. He held out his hand.
“Well, so glad to have seen you, Miss Phaeton,” said he, “but I must run on. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Gay,” said she.
And, lifting his hat again, smiling again gayly, he was gone. For a moment or two I said nothing. Then I remarked:
“So that’s your friend Gay, is it? He’s not a bad-looking fellow.”
“Yes, that’s him,” said she, and, as she spoke, she sank back in her seat for a moment. I did not look at her face. Then she sat up straight again and took the whip.
“Want to stay any longer?” she asked.
“No,” said I.
The little groom sprang away, Rhino and Ready dashed ahead.
“Shall I drop you at the club?” she asked. “I’m goin’ home.”
“I’ll get out here,” said I.
We came to a stand again, and I got down.
“Goodbye,” I said.
She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage was tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for dear life.
Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least suited to him; she’d make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it seems a little perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least between the courses at dinner I caught myself being sorry for her. It is, when you think of it, so remarkably perverse.