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.
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