(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.
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