I
shall never introduce any nice boys to you again."
"Oh, please do," said Dolly, clasping her hands.
"You give them roses," said I, accusingly. "You make them false
to their earliest loves--"
"She was a pudding-faced thing," observed Dolly.
I frowned. Dolly, by an accident, allowed the tip of her finger
to touch my arm for an instant.
"He's a nice boy," said she. "How like he is to you, Mr. Carter!"
"I am a long way past that," said I. "I am thirty-six."
"If you mean to be disagreeable!" said she turning away. "I beg
your pardon for touching you, Mr. Carter."
"I did not notice it, Lady Mickleham."
"Would you like to get out?"
"It's miles from my club," said I discontentedly.
"He's such fun," said Dolly, with a sudden smile. "He told
Archie that I was the most charming woman in London! You've
never done that!"
"He said the same about the pudding-faced girl," I observed.
There was a pause. Then Dolly asked:
"How is your nose?"
"The carriage exercise is doing it good," said I.
"If," observed Dolly, "he is so silly, now, what will he be at
your age?"
"A wise man," said I.
"He suggested that I might write to him," bubbled Dolly.
Now when Dolly bubbles--an operation which includes a sudden turn
towards me, a dancing of eyes, a dart of a small hand, a hurried
rush of words, checked and confused by a speedier gust of
gurgling sound--I am in the habit of ceasing to argue the
question.
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