Here I observed Lady Mickleham looking at me rather suspiciously.

"I don't think that's quite nice of you, Mr. Carter," she said pathetically.

"Lady Mickleham is, in short," I went on, coming to my peroration, "equally deserving of esteem and affection—"

"Esteem and affection! That sounds just right," said Dolly approvingly.

"And those who have been admitted to the enjoyment of her friendship are unanimous in discouraging all others from seeking a similar privilege."

"I beg your pardon?" cried Lady Mickleham.

"Are unanimous," I repeated, slowly and distinctly, "in discouraging all others from seeking a similar privilege."

Dolly looked at me, with her brow slightly puckered. I leant back, puffing at my cigarette. Presently—for there was quite a long pause—Dolly's lips curved.

"My mental powers are not despicable," she observed.

"I have said so," said I.

"I think I see," she remarked.

"Is there anything wrong?" I asked anxiously.

"N-no," said Dolly, "not exactly wrong. In fact, I rather think I like that last bit best. Still, don't you think—?"

She rose, came round the table, took up the pen, and put it back in my hand. "What's this for?" I asked.

"To correct the mistake," said Dolly.

"Do you really think so?" said I.

"I'm afraid so," said Dolly.

I took the pen and made a certain alteration. Dolly took up the album.

"'Are unanimous,'" she read, "in encouraging all others to seek a similar privilege.' Yes, you meant that, you know, Mr. Carter."

"I suppose I must have," said I rather sulkily.

"The other was nonsense," urged Dolly.

"Oh, utter nonsense," said I.

"And you had to write the truth!"

"Yes, I had to write some of it."

"And nonsense can't be the truth, can it, Mr. Carter?"

"Of course it can't, Lady Mickleham."

"Where are you going, Mr. Carter?" she asked; for I rose from my chair.

"To have a quiet smoke," said I.

"Alone?" asked Dolly.

"Yes, alone," said I.

I walked towards the door. Dolly stood by the table fingering the album. I had almost reached the door; then I happened to look round.

"Mr. Carter!" said Dolly, as though a new idea had struck her.

"What is it, Lady Mickleham?"

"Well, you know, Mr. Carter, I—I shall try to forget that mistake of yours."

"You're very kind, Lady Mickleham."

"But," said Dolly with a troubled smile, "I—I'm quite afraid I shan't succeed, Mr. Carter."

After all, the smoking room is meant for smoking.



AN UNCOUNTED HOUR

We were standing, Lady Mickleham and I, at a door which led from the morning room to the terrace at The Towers. I was on a visit to the historic pile (by Vanbrugh—out of the money accumulated by the third Earl—Paymaster to the Forces—temp. Queen Anne). The morning room is a large room. Archie was somewhere in it. Lady Mickleham held a jar containing pate de foie gras; from time to time she dug a piece out with a fork and flung the morsel to a big retriever which was sitting on the terrace. The morning was fine, but cloudy. Lady Mickleham wore blue. The dog swallowed the pate with greediness.

"It's so bad for him," sighed she; "but the dear likes it so much."

"How human the creatures are," said I.

"Do you know," pursued Lady Mickleham, "that the Dowager says I'm extravagant. She thinks dogs ought not to be fed on pate de foie gras."

"Your extravagance," I observed, "is probably due to your having been brought up on a moderate income. I have felt the effect myself."

"Of course," said Dolly, "we are hit by the agricultural depression."

"The Carters also," I murmured, "are landed gentry."

"After all, I don't see much point in economy, do you, Mr. Carter?"

"Economy," I remarked, putting my hands in my pockets, "is going without something you do want in case you should, some day, want something which you probably won't want."

"Isn't that clever?" asked Dolly in an apprehensive tone.

"Oh, dear, no," I answered reassuringly. "Anybody can do that—if they care to try, you know."

Dolly tossed a piece of pate to the retriever.

"I have made a discovery lately," I observed.

"What are you two talking about?" called Archie.

"You're not meant to hear," said Dolly, without turning round.

"Yet, if it's a discovery, he ought to hear it."

"He's made a good many lately," said Dolly.

She dug out the last bit of pate, flung it to the dog, and handed the empty pot to me.

"Don't be so allegorical," I implored. "Besides, it's really not just to Archie. No doubt the dog is a nice one, but—"

"How foolish you are this morning! What's the discovery?"

"An entirely surprising one."

"Oh, but let me hear! It's nothing about Archie, is it?"

"No, I've told you all Archie's sins."

"Nor Mrs. Hilary? I wish it was Mrs. Hilary!"

"Shall we walk on the terrace?" I suggested.

"Oh, yes, let's," said Dolly, stepping out, and putting on a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, which she caught up from a chair hard by. "It isn't Mrs. Hilary?" she added, sitting down on a garden seat.

"No," said I, leaning on a sundial which stood by the seat.

"Well, what is it?"

"It is simple," said I, "and serious. It is not, therefore, like you, Lady Mickleham."

"It's like Mrs. Hilary," said Dolly.

"No; because it isn't pleasant. By the way, you are jealous of Mrs. Hilary?"

Dolly said nothing at all. She took off her hat, roughened her hair a little, and assumed an effective pose. Still, it is a fact (for what it is worth) that she doesn't care much about Mrs. Hilary.

"The discovery," I continued, "is that I'm growing middle-aged."

"You are middle-aged," said Dolly, spearing her hat with its long pin.

I was, very naturally, nettled at this.

"So will you be soon," I retorted.

"Not soon," said Dolly.

"Some day," I insisted.

After a pause of about half a minute, Dolly said, "I suppose so."

"You will become," I pursued, idly drawing patterns with my finger on the sundial, "wrinkled, rough, fat—and, perhaps, good."

"You're very disagreeable today," said Dolly.

She rose and stood by me.

"What do the mottoes mean?" she asked.

There were two; I will not say they contradicted one another, but they looked at life from different points of view.

"Pereunt et imputantur," I read.

"Well, what's that, Mr. Carter?"

"A trite, but offensive, assertion," said I, lighting a cigarette.

"But what does it mean?" she asked, a pucker on her forehead.

"What does it matter?" said I. "Let's try the other."

"The other is longer."

"And better. Horas non numero nisi serenas."

"And what's that?"

I translated literally. Dolly clapped her hands, and her face gleamed with smiles.

"I like that one," she cried.

"Stop!" said I imperatively. "You'll set it moving!"

"It's very sensible," said she.

"More freely rendered, it means, I live only when you—"

"By Jove!" remarked Archie, coming up behind us, pipe in mouth, "there was a lot of rain last night. I've just measured it in the gauge."

"Some people measure everything," said I, with a displeased air. "It is a detestable habit."

"Archie, what does Pereunt et imputantur mean?"

"Eh? Oh, I see. Well, I say, Carter!—Oh, well, you know, I suppose it means you've got to pay for your fun, doesn't it?"

"Oh, is that all? I was afraid it was something horrid. Why did you frighten me, Mr. Carter?"

"I think it is rather horrid," said I.

"Why, it isn't even true," said Dolly scornfully.

Now when I heard this ancient and respectable legend thus cavalierly challenged, I fell to studying it again, and presently I exclaimed:

"Yes, you're right! If it said that, it wouldn't be true; but Archie translated it wrong."

"Well, you have a shot," suggested Archie.

"The oysters are eaten and put down in the bill," said I. "And you will observe, Archie, that it does not say in whose bill."

"Ah!" said Dolly.

"Well, somebody's got to pay," persisted Archie.

"Oh, yes, somebody," laughed Dolly.

"Well, I don't know," said Archie. "I suppose the chap that has the fun—"

"It's not always a chap," observed Dolly.

"Well, then the individual," amended Archie. "I suppose he'd have to pay."

"It doesn't say so," I remarked mildly. "And according to my small experience—"

"I'm quite sure your meaning is right, Mr. Carter," said Dolly in an authoritative tone.

"As for the other motto, Archie," said I, "it merely means that a woman considers all hours wasted which she does not spend in the society of her husband."

"Oh, come, you don't gammon me," said Archie. "It means that the sun don't shine unless it's fine, you know."

Archie delivered this remarkable discovery in a tone of great self satisfaction.

"Oh, you dear old thing!" said Dolly.

"Well, it does you know," said he.

There was a pause. Archie kissed his wife (I am not complaining; he has, of course, a perfect right to kiss his wife) and strolled away toward the hothouses.

I lit another cigarette. Then Dolly, pointing to the stem of the dial, cried:

"Why, here's another inscription—oh, and in English?"

She was right. There was another—carelessly scratched on the old battered column—nearly effaced, for the characters had been but lightly marked—and yet not, as I conceived from the tenor of the words, very old.

"What is it?" asked Dolly, peering over my shoulder, as I bent down to read the letters, and shading her eyes with her hand. (Why didn't she put on her hat? We touch the Incomprehensible.)

"It is," said I, "a singularly poor, shallow, feeble, and undesirable little verse."

"Read it out," said Dolly.

So I read it. The silly fellow had written:

Life is Love, the poets tell us, In the little books they sell us; But pray, ma'am—what's of Life the Use, If Life be Love? For Love's the Deuce.

Dolly began to laugh gently, digging the pin again into her hat.

"I wonder," she said, "whether they used to come and sit by this old dial just as we did this morning!"

"I shouldn't be at all surprised," said I. "And another point occurs to me, Lady Mickleham."

"Oh, does it? What's that, Mr. Carter?"

"Do you think that anybody measured the rain gauge!"

Dolly looked at me very gravely.

"I'm so sorry when you do that," said she pathetically.

I smiled.

"I really am," said dolly. "But you don't mean it, do you?"

"Certainly not," said I.

Dolly smiled.

"No more than he did!" said I, pointing to the sun dial.

And then we both smiled.

"Will this hour count, Mr. Carter?" asked Dolly, as she turned away.

"That would be rather strict," said I.



A REMINISCENCE

"I know exactly what your mother wants, Phyllis," observed Mrs. Hilary.

"It's just to teach them the ordinary things," said little Miss Phyllis.

"What are the ordinary things?" I ventured to ask.

"What all girls are taught, of course, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Hilary. "I'll write about it at once." And she looked at me as if she thought that I might be about to go.

"It is a comprehensive curriculum," I remarked, crossing my legs, "if one may judge from the results. How old are your younger sisters, Miss Phyllis?"

"Fourteen and sixteen," she answered.

"It is a pity," said I, "that this didn't happen a little while back. I knew a governess who would have suited the place to a t.'"

Mrs. Hilary smiled scornfully.

"We used to meet—" I continued.

"Who used to meet?" asked Miss Phyllis.

"The governess and myself, to be sure," said I, "under the old apple tree in the garden at the back of the house."

"What house, Mr. Carter?"

"My father's house, of course, Miss Phyllis. And—"

"Oh, but that must be ages ago!" cried she.

Mrs. Hilary rose, cast one glance at me, and turned to the writing table. Her pen began to scratch almost immediately.

"And under the apple tree," I pursued, "we had many pleasant conversations."

"What about?" asked Miss Phyllis.

"One thing and another," I returned. "The schoolroom windows looked out that way—a circumstance which made matters more comfortable for everybody."

"I should have thought—" began Miss Phyllis, smiling slightly, but keeping an apprehensive eye on Mrs. Hilary's back.

"Not at all," I interrupted. "My sisters saw us, you see. Well, of course they entertained an increased respect for me, which was all right, and a decreased respect for the governess, which was also all right. We met in the hour allotted to French lessons—by an undesigned but appropriate coincidence."

"I shall say about thirty-five, Phyllis," called Mrs. Hilary from the writing table.

"Yes, Cousin Mary," called Miss Phyllis. "Did you meet often, Mr. Carter?"

"Every evening in the French hour," said I.

"She'll have got over any nonsense by then," called Mrs. Hilary. "They are often full of it."

"She had remarkably pretty hair," I continued; "very soft it was. Dear me! I was just twenty."

"How old was she?" asked Miss Phyllis.

"One's first love," said I, "is never any age. Everything went very well. Happiness was impossible. I was heartbroken, and the governess was far from happy. Ah, happy, happy times!"

"But you don't seem to have been happy," objected Miss Phyllis.

"Then came a terrible evening—"

"She ought to be a person of active habits," called Mrs. Hilary.

"I think so, yes, Cousin Mary; oh, what happened, Mr. Carter?"

"And an early riser," added Mrs. Hilary.

"Yes, Cousin Mary. What did happen, Mr. Carter?"

"My mother came in during the French hour. I don't know whether you have observed, Miss Phyllis, how easy it is to slip into the habit of entering rooms when you had better remain outside. Now, even my friend Arch—However, that's neither here nor there. My mother, as I say, came in."

"Church of England, of course, Phyllis?" called Mrs. Hilary.

"Oh, of course, cousin Mary," cried little Miss Phyllis.

"The sect makes no difference," I observed. "Well, my sisters, like good girls, began to repeat the irregular verbs. But it was no use. We were discovered. That night, Miss Phyllis, I nearly drowned myself."

"You must have been—Oh, how awful, Mr. Carter!"

"That is to say, I thought how effective it would be if I drowned myself. Ah, well, it couldn't last!"

"And the governess?"

"She left next morning."

There was a pause. Miss Phyllis looked sad and thoughtful; I smiled pensively and beat my cane against my leg.

"Have you ever seen her since?" asked Miss Phyllis.

"No."

"Shouldn't—shouldn't you like to, Mr. Carter?"

"Heaven forbid!" said I.

Suddenly Mrs. Hilary pushed back her chair, and turned round to us.

"Well, I declare," said she, "I must be growing stupid. Here have I been writing to the Agency, when I know of the very thing myself! The Polwheedles' governess is just leaving them; she's been there over fifteen years. Lady Polwheedle told me she was a treasure. I wonder if she'd go!"

"Is she what mamma wants?"

"My dear, you'll be most lucky to get her. I'll write at once and ask her to come to lunch tomorrow. I met her there. She's an admirable person."

Mrs. Hilary wheeled round again. I shook my head at Miss Phyllis.

"Poor children!" said I. "Manage a bit of fun for them sometimes."

Miss Phyllis assumed a staid and virtuous air.

"They must be properly brought up, Mr. Carter," said she.

"Is there a House Opposite?" I asked; and Miss Phyllis blushed.

Mrs. Hilary advanced, holding out a letter.

"You may as well post this for me," said she. "Oh, and would you like to come to lunch tomorrow?"

"To meet the Paragon?"

"No. She'll be there, of course; but you see it's Saturday, and Hilary will be here; and I thought you might take him off somewhere and leave Phyllis and me to have a quiet talk with her."

"That won't amuse her much," I ventured to remark.

"She's not coming to be amused," said Mrs. Hilary severely.

"All right; I'll come," said I, taking my hat.

"Here's the note for Miss Bannerman," said Mrs. Hilary.

That sort of thing never surprises me. I looked at the letter and read "Miss M. E. Bannerman." "M. E." stood for "Maud Elizabeth." I put my hat back on the table.

"What sort of a looking person is this Miss Bannerman?" I asked.

"Oh, a spare, upright woman—hair a little gray, and—I don't know how to describe it—her face looks a little weather-beaten. She wears glasses."

"Thank you," said I. "And what sort of a looking person am I?"

Mrs. Hilary looked scornful. Miss Phyllis opened her eyes.

"How old do I look, Miss Phyllis?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said uncomfortably.

"Guess," said I sternly.

"F-forty-three—oh, or forty-two?" she asked, with a timid upward glance.

"When you've done your nonsense—" began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm.

"Should you call me fat?" I asked.

"Oh, no; not fat," said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.

"I am undoubtedly bald," I observed.

"You're certainly bald," said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor.

I took my hat and remarked: "A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch."

"You said you would," cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly.

I poised the letter in my hand, reading again "Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman." Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently.

"Who knows," said I, "that I may not be a Romance—a Vanished Dream—a Green Memory—an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch."

"Do you mean that you used to know Miss Bannerman?" asked Mrs. Hilary in her pleasant prosaic way.

It was a sin seventeen years old; it would hardly count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. "You may tell her when I'm gone," said I to Miss Phyllis.

Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary's ear.

"Another?" cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast.

"It was the very first," said I, defending myself.

Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my hat.

"Tell her," said I, "that I remembered her very well."

"I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Hilary.

"And tell her," I continued, "that I am still handsome."

"I shan't say a word about you," said Mrs. Hilary.

"Ah, well, that will be better still," said I.

"She'll have forgotten your very name," remarked Mrs. Hilary.

I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I turned round and observed:

"I dare say her hair's just as soft as ever. Still—I'll lunch some other day."



A VERY FINE DAY

"I see nothing whatever to laugh at," said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished.

"I did not ask you to laugh," I observed mildly. "I mentioned it merely as a typical case."

"It's not typical," she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added:

"Poor boy! I'm not surprised."

"I'm not surprised either," I remarked. "It is, however, extremely deplorable."

"It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?"

"A book," I observed, "might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would—?"

By the way, I might as well state what he—that is, my young cousin George—had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.

Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.

"I've got to go up tomorrow," he remarked.

"Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town," said I.

"D——d hole," observed George.

I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.

A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.

"George, George!" I cried. "There she is—Look!"

George looked, raised his hat with sufficient politeness, and remarked to me:

"Hang it, one sees those people everywhere."

I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned to George with an expression of wonder.

"A fortnight ago—" I began.

"Don't be an ass, Sam," said George, rather sharply. "She's not a bad girl, but—" He broke off and began to whistle. There was a long pause. I lit a cigar, and looked at the people.

"I lunched at the Micklehams' today," said George, drawing a figure on the gravel with his cane. "Mickleham's not a bad fellow."

"One of the best fellows alive," I agreed.

"I wonder why she married him, though," mused George; and he added, with apparent irrelevance, "It's a dashed bore, going up." And then a smile spread over his face; a blush accompanied it, and proclaimed George's sense of delicious wickedness. I turned on him.

"Out with it!" I said.

"It's nothing. Don't be a fool," said George.

"Where did you get that rose?" I asked.

"This rose?" he repeated, fondling the blossom. "It was given to me."

Upon this I groaned—and I still consider that I had good reason for my action. It was the groan of a moralist.

"They've asked me to stay at The Towers next vac.," said George, glancing at me out of the corner of an immoral eye. Perhaps he thought it too immoral, for he added, "It's all right, Sam." I believe that I have as much self control as most people, but at this point I chuckled.

"What the deuce are you laughing at?" asked George.

I made no answer, and he went on—

"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?"

I looked at Dolly. I had better not have done that.

"Would afternoon tea hurt it?" she inquired anxiously.

"It would do it good," said I decisively.

And that is absolutely the whole story. And what in the world Mrs. Hilary found to disapprove of I don't know—especially as I didn't tell her half of it! But she did disapprove. However, she looks very well when she disapproves.



THE HOUSE OPPOSITE

We were talking over the sad case of young Algy Groom; I was explaining to Mrs. Hilary exactly what had happened.

"His father gave him," said I, "a hundred pounds, to keep him for three months in Paris while he learnt French."

"And very liberal too," said Mrs. Hilary.

"It depends where you dine," said I. "However, that question did not arise, for Algy went to the Grand Prix the day after he arrived—"

"A horse race?" asked Mrs. Hilary with great contempt.

"Certainly the competitors are horses," I rejoined. "And there he, most unfortunately, lost the whole sum, without learning any French to speak of."

"How disgusting!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, and little Miss Phyllis gasped in horror.

"Oh, well," said Hilary, with much bravery (as it struck me), "his father's very well off."

"That doesn't make it a bit better, declared his wife.

"There's no mortal sin in a little betting, my dear. Boys will be boys—"

"And even that," I interposed, "wouldn't matter if we could only prevent girls from being girls."

Mrs. Hilary, taking no notice whatever of me, pronounced sentence. "He grossly deceived his father," she said, and took up her embroidery.

"Most of us have grossly deceived our parents before now," said I. "We should all have to confess to something of the sort."

"I hope you're speaking for your own sex," observed Mrs. Hilary.

"Not more than yours," said I. "You used to meet Hilary on the pier when your father wasn't there—you told me so."

"Father had authorized my acquaintance with Hilary."

"I hate quibbles," said I.

There was a pause. Mrs. Hilary stitched; Hilary observed that the day was fine.

"Now," I pursued carelessly, "even Miss Phyllis here has been known to deceive her parents."

"Oh, let the poor child alone, anyhow," said Mrs. Hilary.

"Haven't you?" said I to Miss Phyllis.

I expected an indignant denial. So did Mrs. Hilary, for she remarked with a sympathetic air:

"Never mind his folly, Phyllis dear."

"Haven't you, Miss Phyllis?" said I.

Miss Phyllis grew very red. Fearing that I was causing her pain, I was about to observe on the prospects of a Dissolution when a shy smile spread over Miss Phyllis's face.

"Yes, once," said she with a timid glance at Mrs. Hilary, who immediately laid down her embroidery.

"Out with it," I cried, triumphantly. "Come along, Miss Phyllis. We won't tell, honor bright!"

Miss Phyllis looked again at Mrs. Hilary. Mrs. Hilary is human:

"Well, Phyllis, dear," said she, "after all this time I shouldn't think it my duty—"

"It only happened last summer," said Miss Phyllis.

Mrs. Hilary looked rather put out.

"Still," she began.

"We must have the story," said I.

Little Miss Phyllis put down the sock she had been knitting.

"I was very naughty," she remarked. "It was my last term at school."

"I know that age," said I to Hilary.

"My window looked out towards the street. You're sure you won't tell? Well, there was a house opposite—"

"And a young man in it," said I.

"How did you know that?" asked Miss Phyllis, blushing immensely.

"No girls' school can keep up its numbers without one," I explained.

"Well, there was, anyhow," said Miss Phyllis. "And I and two other girls went to a course of lectures at the Town Hall on literature or something of that kind. We used to have a shilling given us for our tickets."

"Precisely," said I. "A hundred pounds!"

"No, a shilling," corrected Miss Phyllis. "A hundred pounds! How absurd, Mr. Carter! Well, one day I—I—"

"You're sure you wish to go on, Phyllis?" asked Mrs. Hilary.

"You're afraid, Mrs. Hilary," said I severely.

"Nonsense, Mr. Carter. I thought Phyllis might—"

"I don't mind going on," said Miss Phyllis, smiling. "One day I—I lost the other girls."

"The other girls are always easy to lose," I observed.

"And on the way there—oh, you know, he went to the lectures."

"The young dog," said I, nudging Hilary. "I should think he did!"

"On the way there it became rather—rather foggy."

"Blessings on it!" I cried; for little Miss Phyllis's demure but roguish expression delighted me.

"And he—he found me in the fog."

"What are you doing, Mr. Carter?" cried Mrs. Hilary angrily.

"Nothing, nothing," said I. I believe I had winked at Hilary.

"And—we couldn't find the Town Hall."

"Oh, Phyllis!" groaned Mrs. Hilary.

Little Miss Phyllis looked alarmed for a moment. Then she smiled.

"But we found the confectioner's," said she.

"The Grand Prix," said I, pointing my forefinger at Hilary.

"He had no money at all," said Miss Phyllis.

"It's ideal!" said I.

"And—and we had tea on—on—"

"The shilling?" I cried in rapture.

"Yes," said little Miss Phyllis, "on the shilling. And he saw me home."

"Details, please," said I.

Little Miss Phyllis shook her head.

"And left me at the door."

"Was it still foggy?" I asked.

"Yes. Or he wouldn't have—"

"Now what did he—?"

"Come to the door, Mr. Carter," said Miss Phyllis, with obvious wariness. "Oh, and it was such fun!"

"I'm sure it was."

"No, I mean when we were examined in the lectures. I bought the local paper, you know, and read it up, and I got top marks easily, and Miss Green wrote to mother to say how well I had done."

"It all ends most satisfactorily," I observed.

"Yes, didn't it?" said little Miss Phyllis.

Mrs. Hilary was grave again.

"And you never told your mother, Phyllis?" she asked.

"N-no, Cousin Mary," said Miss Phyllis.

I rose and stood with my back to the fire. Little Miss Phyllis took up her sock again, but a smile still played about the corners of her mouth.

"I wonder," said I, looking up at the ceiling, "what happened at the door." Then, as no one spoke, I added:

"Pooh! I know what happened at the door."

"I'm not going to tell you anything more," said Miss Phyllis.

"But I should like to hear it in your own—"

Miss Phyllis was gone! She had suddenly risen and run from the room!

"It did happen at the door," said I.

"Fancy Phyllis!" mused Mrs. Hilary.

"I hope," said I, "that it will be a lesson to you."

"I shall have to keep my eye on her," said Mrs. Hilary.

"You can't do it," said I in easy confidence. I had no fear of little Miss Phyllis being done out of her recreations. "Meanwhile," I pursued, "the important thing is this: my parallel is obvious and complete."

"There's not the least likeness," said Mrs. Hilary sharply.

"As a hundred pounds are to a shilling, so is the Grand Prix to the young man opposite," I observed, taking my hat, and holding out my hand to Mrs. Hilary.

"I am very angry with you," she said. "You've made the child think there was nothing wrong in it."

"Oh! Nonsense," said I. "Look how she enjoyed telling it."

Then, not heeding Mrs. Hilary, I launched into an apostrophe.

"O, divine House Opposite!" I cried. "Charming House Opposite! If only I might dwell forever in the House Opposite!"

"I haven't the least notion of what you mean," remarked Mrs. Hilary, stiffly. "I suppose it's something silly—or worse."

I looked at her in some puzzle.

"Have you no longing for the House Opposite?" I asked.

Mrs. Hilary looked at me. Her eyes ceased to be absolutely blank. She put her arm through Hilary's and answered gently—

"I don't want the House Opposite."

"Ah," said I, giving my hat a brush, "but maybe you remember the House—when it was Opposite?"

Mrs. Hilary, one arm still in Hilary's, gave me her hand. She blushed and smiled.

"Well," said she, "it was your fault; so I won't scold Phyllis."

"No, don't my dear," said Hilary, with a laugh.

As for me, I went downstairs, and, in absence of mind, bade my cabman drive to the House Opposite. But I have never got there.



A QUICK CHANGE

"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."

Dolly looked at me, then she asked in an insinuating tone—

"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—"

He stopped, paralyzed by a cry from Dolly—

"Archie, what in the world are you wearing?"

I turned a startled gaze upon Archie.

"It's just an old suit I routed out," said he apologetically.

I looked at Dolly; her eyes were closed shut, and she gasped—

"My dear, dear boy, go and change it!"

"I don't see why it's not—"

"Go and change it, if you love me," besought Dolly.

"Oh, all right."

"You look hideous in it," she said, her eyes still shut.

Archie, who is very docile, withdrew. A guilty silence reigned for some moments. Then Dolly opened her eyes. "It was the suit," she said, with a shudder. "Oh, how it all came back to me!"

"I could wish," I observed, taking my hat, "that it would all come back to me."

"I wonder if you mean that!"

"As much as I ever did," said I earnestly.

"And that is—?

"Quite enough."

"How tiresome you are!" she said, turning away with a smile.

Outside I met Archie in another suit.

"A quick change, eh, my boy?" said he.

"It took just a week," I remarked absently.

Archie stared.



A SLIGHT MISTAKE

"I don't ask you for more than a guinea," said Mrs. Hilary, with a parade of forbearance.

"It would be the same," I replied politely, "if you asked me for a thousand;" with which I handed her half-a-crown. She held it in her open hand, regarding it scornfully.

"Yes," I continued, taking a seat, "I feel that pecuniary gifts—"

"Half-a-crown!"

"Are you a poor substitute for personal service. May not I accompany you to the ceremony?"

"I dare say you spent as much as this on wine with your lunch!"

"I was in a mad mood today," I answered apologetically. "What are they taught at the school?"

"Above all, to be good girls," said Mrs. Hilary earnestly. "What are you sneering at, Mr. Carter?"

"Nothing," said I hastily, and I added with a sigh, "I suppose it's all right."

"I should like," said Mrs. Hilary meditatively, "if I had not other duties, to dedicate my life to the service of girls."

"I should think twice about that, if I were you," said I, shaking my head.

"By the way, Mr. Carter, I don't know if I've ever spoken unkindly of Lady Mickleham. I hope not."

"Hope," said I, "is not yet taxed."

"If I have, I'm very sorry. She's been most kind in undertaking to give away the prizes today. There must be some good in her."

"Oh, don't be hasty," I implored.

"I always wanted to think well of her."

"Ah! Now I never did."

"And Lord Mickleham is coming, too. He'll be most useful."

"That settles it," I exclaimed. "I may not be an earl, but I have a perfect right to be useful. I'll go too."

"I wonder if you'll behave properly," said Mrs. Hilary doubtfully.

I held out a half-sovereign, three half-crowns, and a shilling.

"Oh, well, you may come, since Hilary can't," said Mrs. Hilary.

"You mean he won't," I observed.

"He has always been prevented hitherto," said she, with dignity.

So I went, and it proved a most agreeable expedition. There were 200 girls in blue frocks and white aprons (the girl three from the end of the fifth row was decidedly pretty)—a nice lot of prize books—the Micklehams (Dolly in demure black), ourselves, and the matron. All went well. Dolly gave away the prizes; Mrs. Hilary and Archie made little speeches. Then the matron came to me. I was sitting modestly at the back of the platform, a little distance behind the others.

"Mr. Musgrave," said the matron to me, "we're so glad to see you here at last. Won't you say a few words?"

"It would be a privilege," I responded cordially, "but unhappily I have a sore throat."

The matron (who was a most respectable woman) said, "Dear, dear!" but did not press the point. Evidently, however, she liked me, for when we went to have a cup of tea, she got me in a corner and began to tell me all about the work. It was extremely interesting. Then the matron observed:

"And what an angel Mrs. Musgrave is!"

"Well, I should hardly call her that," said I, with a smile.

"Oh, you mustn't depreciate her—you, of all men!" cried the matron, with a somewhat ponderous archness. "Really I envy you her constant society."

"I assure you," said I, "I see very little of her."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I only go to the house about once a fortnight—Oh, it's not my fault. She won't have me there oftener."

"What do you mean? I beg your pardon. Perhaps I've touched on a painful—?"

"Not at all, not at all," said I suavely. "It is very natural. I am neither young nor handsome, Mrs. Wiggins. I am not complaining."

The matron gazed at me.

"Only seeing her here," I pursued, "you have no idea of what she is at home. She has chosen to forbid me to come to her house—"

"Her house?"

"It happens to be more hers than mine," I explained. "To forbid me, I say, more than once to come to her house. No doubt she had her reasons."

"Nothing could justify it," said the matron, directing a wondering glance at Mrs. Hilary.

"Do not let us blame her," said I. "It is just an unfortunate accident. She is not as fond of me as I could wish, Mrs. Wiggins; and she is a great deal fonder than I could wish of—"

I broke off. Mrs. Hilary was walking toward us. I think she was pleased to see me getting on so well with the matron, for she was smiling pleasantly. The matron wore a bewildered expression.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Hilary, "that you'll drive back with the Micklehams?"

"Unless you want me," said I, keeping a watchful eye on the matron.

"Oh, I don't want you," said Mrs. Hilary lightly.

"You won't be alone this evening?" I asked anxiously.

Mrs. Hilary stared a little.

"O, no!" she said. "We shall have our usual party."

"May I come one day next week?" I asked humbly.

Mrs. Hilary thought for a moment.

"I'm so busy next week—come the week after," said she, giving me her hand.

"That's very unkind," said I.

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Hilary, and she added, "Mind you let me know when you're coming."

"I won't surprise you," I assured her, with a covert glance at the matron.

The excellent woman was quite red in the face, and could gasp out nothing but "Goodbye," as Mrs. Hilary affectionately pressed her hand.

At this moment Dolly came up. She was alone.

"Where's Archie?" I asked.

"He's run away; he's got to meet somebody. I knew you'd see me home. Mrs. Hilary didn't want you, of course?"

"Of course not," said I plaintively.

"Besides, you'd rather come with me, wouldn't you?" pursued Dolly, and she added, pleasantly to the matron, "Mrs. Hilary's so down on him, you know."

"I'd much rather come with you," said I.

"We'll have a cozy drive all to ourselves," said Dolly, "without husbands or wives or anything horrid. Isn't it nice to get rid of one's husband sometimes, Mrs. Wiggins?"

"I have the misfortune to be a widow, Lady Mickleham," said Mrs. Wiggins.

Dolly's eyes rested upon her with an interesting expression. I knew that she was about to ask Mrs. Wiggins whether she liked the condition of life, and I interposed hastily, with a sigh:

"But you can look back on a happy marriage, Mrs. Wiggins?"

"I did my best to make it so," said she stiffly.

"You are right," said I. "Even in the face of unkindness we should strive—"

"My husband's not unkind," said Dolly.

"I didn't mean your husband," said I.

"What your poor wife would do if she cared a button for you, I don't know," observed Dolly.

"If I had a wife who cared for me, I should be a better man," said I solemnly.

"But you'd probably be very dull," said Dolly. "And you wouldn't be allowed to drive with me."

"Perhaps it's all for the best," said I, brightening up. "Goodbye, Mrs. Wiggins."

Dolly walked on. Mrs. Wiggins held my hand for a moment.

"Young man," said she sternly, "are you sure it's not your own fault?"

"I'm not at all sure, Mrs. Wiggins," said I. "But don't be distressed about it. It's of no consequence. I don't let it make me unhappy. Goodbye; so many thanks. Charming girls you have here—especially that one in the fifth—I mean, charming, all of them. Goodbye."

I hastened to the carriage. Mrs. Wiggins stood and watched. I got in and sat down by Dolly.

"Oh, Mrs. Wiggins," said Dolly, dimpling, "don't tell Mrs. Hilary that Archie wasn't with us, or we shall get into trouble." And she added to me, "Are you all right?"

"Rather!" said I appreciatively; and we drove off, leaving Mrs. Wiggins on her doorstep.

A fortnight later I went to call on Mrs. Hilary. After some conversation she remarked:

"I'm going to the school again tomorrow."

"Really!" said I.

"And I'm so delighted—I've persuaded Hilary to come."

She paused, and then added:

"You really seemed interested last time."

"Oh, I was."

"Would you like to come again tomorrow?"

"No, I think not, thanks," said I carelessly.

"That's just like you!" she said severely. "You never do any real good because you never stick to anything."

"There are some things one can't stick to," said I.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Hilary.

But there are—and I didn't go.



THE OTHER LADY

"By the merest chance," I observed meditatively, "I attended a reception last night."

"I went to three," said Lady Mickleham, selecting a sardine sandwich with care.

"I might not have gone," I mused, "I might easily not have gone."

"I can't see what difference it would have made if you hadn't," said she.

"I thought three times about going. It's a curious world."

"What happened? You may smoke, you know."

"I fell in love," said I, lighting a cigarette.

Lady Mickleham placed her feet on the fender—it was a chilly afternoon—and turned her face to me, shielding it from the fire with her handkerchief.

"Men of your age," she remarked, "have no business to be thinking of such things."

"I was not thinking of it," said I. "I was thinking of going home. Then I was introduced to her."

"And you stayed a little, I suppose?"

"I stayed two hours—or two minutes,—I forget which—"; and, I added, nodding my head at Lady Mickleham, "There was something irresistible about me last night."

Lady Mickleham laughed.

"You seem very pleased with yourself," she said, reaching for a fan to replace the handkerchief.

"Yes, take care of your complexion," said I approvingly. "She has a lovely complexion."

Lady Mickleham laid down the fan.

"I am very pleased with myself," I continued. "She was delighted with me."

"I suppose you talked nonsense to her."

"I have not the least idea what I talked to her. It was quite immaterial. The language of the eyes—"

"Oh, you might be a boy!"

"I was," said I, nodding again.

There was a long silence. Dolly looked at me; I looked at the fire. I did not, however, see the fire. I saw something quite different.

"She liked me very much," I observed, stretching my hands out toward the blaze.

"You absurd old man!—" said Dolly. "Was she very charming?"

"She was perfect."

"How? Clever?"

I waved my hand impatiently.

"Pretty, Mr. Carter?"

"Why, of course; the prettiest picture I ever—but that goes without saying."

"It would have gone better without saying," remarked Dolly. "Considering—"

To have asked "Considering what?" would have been the acme of bad taste.

I merely smiled, and waved my hand again.

"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."

I stood for a moment considering this proposal.

"I don't think," said I, "that it would be proper."

"Why, Archie suggested it! You're making an excuse. You know you are!" and Lady Mickleham looked very indignant. "As if," she added scornfully, "you cared about what was proper!"

I dropped into a chair, and said, in a confidential tone, "I don't care a pin. It was a mere excuse. I don't want to come."

"You're very rude, indeed. Many women would never speak to you again."

"They would," said I, "all do just as you will."

"And what's that, Mr. Carter."

"Ask me again on the first opportunity."

"Why won't you come?" said Dolly, waiving this question.

I bent forward, holding my hat in my left hand and sawing the air with my right forefinger.

"You fail to allow," said I impressively, "for the rejuvenescence which recent events have produced in me. If I came with you this evening, I should be quite capable—" I paused.

"Of anything dreadful?" asked Dolly.

"Of paying you pronounced attentions," said I gravely.

"That," said Dolly with equal gravity, "would be very regrettable. It would be unjust to me—and very insulting to her, Mr. Carter."

"It would be the finest testimonial to her," I cried.

"And you'll spend the evening thinking of her?" asked Dolly.

"I shall go through the evening," said I, "in the best way I can." And I smiled contentedly.

"What's her husband?" asked Dolly suddenly.

"Her husband," I rejoined, "is nothing at all."

Dolly, receiving this answer, looked at me with a pathetic air.

"It's not quite fair," she observed. "Do you know what I'm thinking about, Mr. Carter?"

"Certainly I do, Lady Mickleham. You are thinking that you would like to meet me for the first time."

"Not at all. I was thinking that it would be amusing if you met me for the first time."

I said nothing. Dolly rose and walked to the window. She swung the tassel of the blind and it bumped against the window. The failing sun caught her ruddy brown hair. There were curls on her forehead, too.

"It's a grand world," said I. "And, after all, one can grow old very gradually."

"You're not really old," said Dolly, with the fleetest glance at me. A glance should not be over-long.

"Gradually and disgracefully," I murmured.

"If you met me for the first time—" said Dolly, swinging the tassel.

"By Heaven, it should be the last!" I cried, and I rose to my feet.

Dolly let the tassel go, and made me a very pretty curtsey.

"I am going to another party tonight," said I, nodding my head significantly.

"Ah!" said Dolly.

"And I shall again," I pursued, "spend my time with the prettiest woman in the room."

"Shall you?" asked Dolly, smiling.

"I am a very fortunate fellow," I observed. "And as for Mrs. Hilary, she may say what she likes."

"Oh, does Mrs. Hilary know the Other Lady?"

I walked toward the door.

"There is," said I, laying my hand on the door, "no Other Lady."

"I shall get there about eleven," said Dolly.



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Unfortunately it was Sunday; therefore the gardeners could not be ordered to shift the long row of flower pots from the side of the terrace next the house, where Dolly had ordered them to be put, to the side remote from the house, where Dolly now wished them to stand. Yet Dolly could not think of living with the pots where they were till Monday. It would kill her, she said. So Archie left the cool shade of the great trees, where Dolly sat doing nothing, and Nellie Phaeton sat splicing the gig whip, and I lay in a deck chair with something iced beside me. Outside the sun was broiling hot and poor Archie mopped his brow at every weary journey across the broad terrace.

"It's a burning' shame, Dolly," said Miss Phaeton. "I wouldn't do it if I were him."

"Oh, yes, you would, dear," said Dolly. "The pots looked atrocious on that side."

I took a long sip from my glass, and observed in a meditative tone:

"There but for the grace of woman, goes Samuel Travers Carter."

Dolly's lazy lids half lifted. Miss Phaeton mumbled (Her mouth was full of twine):

"What DO you mean?"

"Nemo omnibus horis sapit," said I apologetically.

"I don't know what that means either."

"Nemo—everybody," I translated, "sapit—has been in love—omnibus—once—horis—at least."

"Oh, and you mean she wouldn't have you?" asked Nellie, with blunt directness.

"Not quite that," said I. "They—"

"THEY?" murmured Dolly, with half-lifted lids.

"THEY," I pursued, "regretfully recognized my impossibility. Hence I am not carrying pots across a broad terrace under a hot sun."

"Why did they think you impossible?" asked Miss Phaeton, who takes much interest in this sort of question.

"A variety of reasons: for one, I was too clever, for another, too stupid; for others, too good—or too bad; too serious—or too frivolous; too poor or—"

"Well, no one objected to your money, I suppose?" interrupted Nellie.

"Pardon me. I was about to say 'or not rich enough.'"

"But that's the same thing."

"The antithesis is certainly imperfect," I admitted.

"Mr. Gay," said Nellie, introducing the name with some timidity, "you know who I mean?—the poet—once said to me that man was essentially imperfect until he was married."

"It is true," I agreed. "And woman until she is dead."

"I don't think he meant it quite in that sense," said Nellie, rather puzzled.

"I don't think he meant it in any sense," murmured Dolly, a little unkindly.

We might have gone on talking in this way for ever so long had not Archie at this point dropped a large flower pot and smashed it to bits. He stood looking at the bits for a moment, and then came towards us and sank into a chair.

"I'm off!" he announced.

"And half are on one side, and half on the other," said Dolly, regretfully.

A sudden impulse seized me. I got up, put on my straw hat, took off my coat, walked out into the sun, and began to move flower pots across the broad terrace. I heard a laugh from Archie, a little cry from Dolly, and from Nellie Phaeton, "Goodness, what's he doing that for?" I was not turned from my purpose. The luncheon bell rang. Miss Phaeton, whip and twine in hand, walked into the house. Archie followed her, saying as he passed that he hoped I shouldn't find it warm. I went on shifting the flower pots. They were very heavy. I broke two, but I went on. Presently Dolly put up her parasol and came out from the shade to watch me. She stood there for a moment or two. Then, she said:

"Well, do you think you'd like it, Mr. Carter?"

"Wait till I've finished," said I, waving my hand.

Another ten minutes saw the end of my task. Panting and hot I sought the shade, and flung myself onto my deck chair again. I also lit a cigarette.

"I think they looked better on the other side, after all," said Dolly meditatively.

"Of course you do," said I urbanely. "You needn't tell me that"

"Perhaps you'd like to move them back," she suggested.

"No," said I. "I've done enough to create the impression."

"And how did you like it?"

"It was," said I, "in its way a pleasant enough illusion." And I shrugged my shoulders, and blew a ring of smoke.

To my very considerable gratification, Dolly's tone manifested some annoyance as she asked:

"Why do you say, 'in its way'?"

"Because, in spite of the momentary pleasure I gained from feeling myself a married man, I could not banish the idea that we should not permanently suit one another."

"Oh, you thought that?" said Dolly, smiling again.

"I must confess it," said I. "The fault, I know, would be mine."

"I'm sure of that," said Dolly.

"But the fact is that I can't exist in too high altitudes. The rarefaction of the moral atmosphere—"

"Please don't use all those long words."

"Well, then, to put it plainly," said I, with a pleasant smile, "I felt all the time that Mrs. Hilary would be too good for me."

It is not very often that it falls to my humble lot to startle Lady Mickleham out of her composure. But at this point she sat up quite straight in her chair; her cheek flushed, and her eyelids ceased to droop in indolent insouciance.

"Mrs. Hilary!" she said. "What has Mrs. Hilary—?

"I really thought you understood," said I, "the object of my experiment."

Dolly glanced at me. I believe that my expression was absolutely innocent—and I am, of course sure that hers expressed mere surprise.

"I thought," she said, after a pause, "that you were thinking of Nellie Phaeton."

"Oh, I see," cried I smiling. "A natural mistake, to be sure."

"She thought so too," pursued Dolly, biting her lip.

"Did she though?"

"And I'm sure she'd be quite annoyed if she thought you were thinking of Mrs. Hilary."

"As a matter of fact," I observed, "she didn't understand what I was doing at all."

Dolly leant back. The relics of a frown still dwelt on her brow; presently, however, she began to swing her hat on her forefinger, and she threw a look at me. I immediately looked up toward the branches above my head.

"We might as well go in to lunch," said Dolly.

"By all means," I acquiesced, with alacrity.

We went out into the sunshine, and came where the pots were. Suddenly Dolly said:

"Go back and sit down again, Mr. Carter."

"I want my lunch," I ventured to observe.

"Do as I tell you," said Dolly, stamping her foot; whereat, much intimidated, I went back, and stretched myself once more on the deck chair.

Dolly approached a flower pot. She stooped down, exerting her strength, lifted it, and carried it, not without effort, across the terrace.

Again she did the like. I sat smoking and watching. She lifted a third pot, but dropped it half way. Then, dusting her hands against one another, she came back slowly into the shade and sat down. I made no remark.

Dolly glanced at me.

"Well?" she said.

"Woman—woman—woman!" said I sadly.

"Must I carry some more?" asked Dolly, in a humble, yet protesting, tone.

"Mrs. Hilary," I began, "is an exceedingly attractive—"

Dolly rose with a sigh.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"More pots," said Dolly, standing opposite me. "I must go on, you see."

"Till when, Lady Mickleham?"

"Till you tell the truth," said Dolly, and she suddenly burst into a little laugh.

"Woman—woman—woman!" said I again. "Let's go in to lunch."

"I'm going to carry the pots," said Dolly. "It's awfully hot, Mr. Carter—and look at my poor hands!"

She held them out to me.

"Lunch!" said I.

"Pots!" said Dolly, with infinite firmness.

The window of the dining room opened and Archie put his head out.

"Come along, you two," he called. "Everything's getting cold."

Dolly turned an appealing glance on me.

"How obstinate you are!" she said. "You know perfectly well—"

I began to walk towards the house.

"I'm going in to lunch," said I.

"Ask them to keep some for me," said Dolly, and she turned up the sleeves of her gown, till her wrists were free.

"It's most unfair," said I indignantly.

"I don't care if it is," said Dolly, stooping down to lift a pot.

I watched her strain to lift it. She had chosen the largest and heaviest; she sighed delicately and delicately she panted. She also looked at her hands, and held them up for me to see the lines of brown on the pink. I put my hands in my pockets and said most sulkily, as I turned away towards the house:

"All right. It wasn't Mrs. Hilary then."

Dolly rose up, seized me by the arm, and made me run to the house.

"Mr. Carter," she cried, "would stop for those wretched pots. He's moved all except two, but he's broken three. Isn't he stupid?"

"You are an old ass, Carter," said Archie.

"I believe you're right, Archie," said I.



ONE WAY IN

I had a very curious dream the other night. In fact, I dreamt that I was dead. I passed through a green baize door and found myself in a small square room. Opposite me was another door inscribed "Elysian Fields," and in front of it, at a large table with a raised ledge, sat Rhadamanthus. As I entered I saw a graceful figure vanish through the door opposite.

"It's no use trying to deceive me," I observed. "That was Mrs. Hilary, I think; if you don't mind, I'll join her."

"I'm afraid I must trouble you to take a seat for a few moments, Mr. Carter," said Rhadamanthus, "while I run over your little account."

"Any formalities which are usual," I murmured politely, as I sat down.

Rhadamanthus turned over the leaves of a large book.

"Carter—Samuel Travers, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. For goodness sake don't confuse me with Vincent Carter. He only paid five shillings in the pound."

"Your case presents some peculiar features, Mr. Carter," said Rhadamanthus. "I hope I am not censorious, but—well, that fine at Bowstreet?"

"I was a mere boy," said I, with some warmth, "and my solicitor grossly mismanaged the case.."

"Well, well!" said he soothingly. "But haven't you spent a great deal of time at Monte Carlo?"

"A man must be somewhere," said I.

Rhadamanthus scratched his nose.

"I should have wasted the money anyhow," I added.

"I suppose you would," he conceded. "But what of this caveat lodged by the Dowager Lady Mickleham? That's rather serious, you know; isn't it now—joking apart?"

"I am disappointed," I remarked, "to find a man of your experience paying any attention to such an ill-natured old woman."

"We have our rules," he replied, "and I'm afraid, Mr. Carter, that until that caveat is removed—"

"You don't mean that?"

"Really, I'm afraid so."

"Then I may as well go back," said I, taking my hat.

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

"Although I can't oblige you with an order of admission," said Rhadamanthus, very civilly, "perhaps it would amuse you to listen to a case or two. There's no hurry, you know. You've got lots of time before you."

"It will be an extremely interesting experience," said I, sitting down again.

The door opened, and, as I expected (I don't know why, but it happens like that in dreams), Dolly Mickleham came in. She did not seem to see me. She bowed to Rhadamanthus, smiled, and took a chair immediately opposite the table.

"Mickleham—Dorothea—Countess of—" she said.

"Formerly, I think, Dolly Foster?" asked Rhadamanthus.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said Dolly.

"The account runs on," he explained, and began to consult his big book. Dolly leant back in her chair, slowly peeling off her gloves. Rhadamanthus shut the book with a bang.

"It's not the least use," he said decisively. "It wouldn't be kind to pretend that it was, Lady Mickleham."

"Dear, dear," said Dolly. "What's the matter?"

"Half the women in London have petitioned against you."

"Have they, really?" cried Dolly, to all appearance rather delighted. "What do they say, Mr. Rhadamanthus? Is it in that book? Let me look." And she held out her hand.

"The book's too heavy for you to hold," said he.

"I'll come round," said Dolly. So she went round and leant over his shoulder and read the book.

"What's that scent you've got on?" asked Rhadamanthus.

"Bouquet du diable," said she. (I had never heard of the perfume before.) "Isn't it sweet?"

"I haven't smelt it since I was a boy," sighed Rhadamanthus.

"Poor old thing," said Dolly. "I'm not going to read all this, you know." And, with a somewhat contemptuous smile, she walked back to her chair. "They ought to be ashamed of themselves," she added, as she sat down. "It's just because I'm not a fright."

"Aren't you a fright?" asked Rhadamanthus. "Where are my spectacles?"

He put them on and looked at Dolly.

"I must go in, you know," said Dolly, smiling at Rhadamanthus. "My husband has gone in!"

"I shouldn't have thought you'd consider that conclusive," said he, with a touch of satire in his tone.

"Don't be horrid," said Dolly, pouting.

There was a pause. Rhadamanthus examined Dolly through his spectacles.

"This is a very painful duty," said he, at last. "I have sat here for a great many years, and I have seldom had a more painful duty."

"It's very absurd of you," said Dolly.

"I can't help it, though," said he.

"Do you really mean that I'm not to go in?"

"I do, indeed," said Rhadamanthus.

Dolly rose. She leant her arms on the raised ledge which ran along the table, and she leant her chin on her hands.

"Really?" she said.

"Really," said he, looking the other way.

A sudden change came over Dolly's face. Her dimples vanished; her eyes grew pathetic and began to shine rather than to sparkle; her lip quivered just a little.

"You're very unkind," she said in an extremely low tone. "I had no idea you would be so unkind."

Rhadamanthus seemed very uncomfortable.

"Don't do that," he said, quite sharply, fidgeting with the blotting paper.

Dolly began to move slowly round the table. Rhadamanthus sat still. When she was standing close by him, she put her hand lightly on his arm and said:

"Please do, Mr. Rhadamanthus."

"It's as much as my place is worth," he grumbled.

Dolly's eyes shone still, but the faintest little smile began to play about her mouth.

"Some day," she said (with total inappropriateness, now I come to think of it, though it did not strike me so at the time), "you'll be glad to remember having done a kind thing. When you're old—because you are not really old now—you will say, 'I'm glad I didn't send poor Dolly Mickleham away crying.'"

Rhadamanthus uttered an inarticulate sound—half impatience, half, I fancy, something else.

"We are none of us perfect, I dare say. If I asked your wife—"

"I haven't got a wife," said Rhadamanthus.

"That's why you're so hard-hearted," said Dolly. "A man who's got a wife is never hard on other women."

There was another pause. Then Rhadamanthus, looking straight at the blotting paper, said:

"Oh, well, don't bother me. Be off with you;" and as he spoke, the door behind him opened.

"Oh, you old dear!" she cried; and, stooping swiftly, she kissed Rhadamanthus. "You're horribly bristly!" she laughed; and then, before he could move, she ran through the door.

I rose from my seat, taking my hat and stick in my hand. I felt, as you may suppose, that I had been there long enough. When I moved Rhadamanthus looked up, and with an attempt at unconsciousness observed:

"We will proceed with your case now, if you please, Mr. Carter."

I looked him full in the face. Rhadamanthus blushed. I pursued my way towards the door.

"Stop!" he said, in a blustering tone. "You can't go there, you know."

I smiled significantly.

"Isn't it rather too late for that sort of thing?" I asked. "You seem to forget that I have been here for the last quarter of an hour."

"I didn't know she was going to do it," he protested.

"Oh, of course," said I, "that will be your story. Mine, however, I shall tell in my own way."

Rhadamanthus blushed again. Evidently he felt that he was in a delicate position. We were standing thus, facing one another, when the door began to open again, and Dolly put her head out.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she said. "I thought I heard your voice. Come along and help me to find Archie."

"This gentleman says I'm not to come in," said I.

"Oh, what nonsense! Now, you really mustn't be silly, Mr. Rhadamanthus—or I shall have to—Mr. Carter, you weren't there, were you?"

"I was—and a more interesting piece of scandal it has seldom been—"

"Hush! I didn't do anything. Now, you know I didn't, Mr. Carter!"

"No," said I, "you didn't. But Rhadamanthus, taking you unawares—"

"Oh, be off with you—both of you!" cried Rhadamanthus.

"That's sensible," said Dolly. "Because you know, there really isn't any harm in poor Mr. Carter."

Rhadamanthus vanished. Dolly and I went inside.

"I suppose everything will be very different here," said Dolly, and I think she sighed.

Whether it were or not I don't know, for just then I awoke, and found myself saying aloud, in answer to the dream voice and the dream face (which had not gone altogether with the dream).

"Not everything"—a speech that, I agree, I ought not to have made, even though it were only in a dream.

THE END