"There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown
cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"
I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am
sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."
"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said,
trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at
liberty?"
"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with
him."
"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."
We passed out of the file room.
"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.
I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the
curb.
"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.
It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said:
"But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end
nicely, but doesn't; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and
the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who
is Fate) in particular."
I knew that she was puzzled.
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