"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.
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