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.
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