“You’re so very elliptical.”
“So very what, Mr. Carter?”
“You leave so much out, I mean. After what?”
“Why, after I sent him away. Didn’t I tell you? Oh, we had the most awful scene. He raved, Mr. Carter. He called me the most horrid names, and—”
“Tore his hair?”
“It wasn’t long enough to get hold of,” she tittered. “But don’t laugh. It was really dreadful. And so unjust! And then, next day, when I thought it was comfortably over, you know, he came back, and—and apologized, and called himself the most awful names, and—well, that was really worse.”
“What did the fellow complain of?” I asked in wondering tones.
“Oh, he said I’d destroyed his faith in women, you know, and that I’d led him on, and that I was—well, he was very rude indeed. And he went on writing me letters like that for a whole year? It made me quite uncomfortable.”
“But he didn’t go back to short trousers and a fiddle, did he?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, no. But he forgot all he owed me, and he told me that his heart was dead, and that he should never love any one again.”
“But he’s going to marry that girl.”
“Oh, he doesn’t care about her,” said Miss Dolly reassuringly. “It’s the money, you know. He hadn’t a farthing of his own. Now he’ll be set up for life.”
“And it’s all due to you!” said I admiringly.
“Well, it is, really.”
“I don’t call her such a bad-looking girl, though.” (I hadn’t seen her face.)
“Mr. Carter! She’s hideous!”
I dropped that subject.
“And now,” said Miss Dolly again, “he cuts me dead!”
“It is the height of ingratitude. Why, to love you was a liberal education!”
“Yes, wasn’t it? How nicely you put that. A liberal education!’ I shall tell Archie.” (Archie is Lord Mickleham.)
“What, about Phil Meadows?”
“Goodness me, no, Mr. Carter. Just what you said, you know.”
“But why not tell Mickleham about Phil Meadows?” I urged. “It’s all to your credit, you know.”
“I know, but men are so foolish. You see, Archie thinks—”
“Of course he does.”
“You might let me finish.”
“Archie thinks you were never in love before.”
“Yes, he does. Well, of course, I wasn’t in love with Phil—”
“Not a little bit?”
“Oh, well—”
“Nor with any one else?”
Miss Dolly looked for an instant in my direction.
“Nor with any one else?” said I.
Miss Dolly looked straight in front of her.
“Nor with—” I began.
“Hullo, old chappie, where did you spring from?”
“Why, Archie!” cried Miss Dolly.
“Oh, how are you, Mickleham, old man? Take this seat; I’m just off—just off. Yes, I was, upon my honor—got to meet a man at the club. Goodbye, Miss Foster. Jove! I’m late!”
And as I went I heard Miss Dolly say, “I thought you were never coming, Archie, dear!” Well, she didn’t think he was coming just then. No more did I.
CORDIAL RELATIONS
The other day I paid a call on Miss Dolly Foster for the purpose of presenting to her my small offering on the occasion of her marriage to Lord Mickleham. It was a pretty little bit of jewelry—a pearl heart, broken (rubies played the part of blood) and held together by a gold pin, set with diamonds, the whole surmounted by an earl’s coronet. I had taken some trouble about it, and was grateful when Miss Dolly asked me to explain the symbolism.
“It is my heart,” I observed. “The fracture is your making; the pin—”
Here Miss Dolly interrupted; to tell the truth I was not sorry, for I was fairly graveled for the meaning of the pin.
“What nonsense, Mr. Carter!” she said; “but it’s awfully pretty. Thanks so very very much. Aren’t relations funny people?”
“If you wish to change the subject, pray do,” said I. “I’ll change anything except my affections.”
“Look here,” she pursued, holding out a bundle of letters. “Here are the congratulatory epistles from relations. Shall I read you a few?”
“It will be a most agreeable mode of passing the time,” said I.
“This is from Aunt Georgiana—she’s a widow—lives at Cheltenham. ‘My dearest Dorothea—’ ”
“Who?”
“Dorothea’s my name, Mr. Carter. It means the gift of heaven, you know.”
“ ‘My dearest Dorothea, I have heard the news of your engagement to Lord Mickleham with deep thankfulness. To obtain the love of an honest man is a great prize. I hope you will prove worthy of it. Marriage is a trial and an opportunity—’ ”
“Hear, hear!” said I. “A trial for the husband and—”
“Be quiet, Mr. Carter. ‘A trial and an opportunity. It searches the heart and affords a sphere of usefulness which—’ So she goes on, you know. I don’t see why I need be lectured just because I’m going to be married, do you, Mr. Carter?”
“Let’s try another,” said I. “Who’s that on pink paper?”
“Oh, that’s Georgy Vane. She’s awful fun. ‘Dear old Dolly—So you’ve brought it off. Hearty congrats. I thought you were going to be silly and throw away—’ There’s nothing else there, Mr. Carter. Look here. Listen to this. It’s from Uncle William. He’s a clergyman, you know. ‘My dear Niece—I have heard with great gratification of your engagement. Your aunt and I unite in all good wishes. I recollect Lord Mickleham’s father when I had a curacy near Worcester. He was a regular attendant at church and a supporter of all good works in the diocese. If only his son takes after him (fancy Archie!) You have secured a prize. I hope you have a proper sense of the responsibilities you are undertaking. Marriage affords no small opportunities, it also entails certain trials—’ ”
“Why, you’re reading Aunt Georgiana again.”
“Am I? No, it’s Uncle William.”
“Then let’s try a fresh cast—unless you’ll finish Georgy Vane’s.”
“Well, here’s Cousin Susan’s. She’s an old maid, you know. It’s very long. Here’s a bit: ‘Woman has it in her power to exercise a sacred influence. I have not the pleasure of knowing Lord Mickleham, but I hope, my dear, that you will use your power over him for good. It is useless for me to deny that when you stayed with me, I thought you were addicted to frivolity. Doubtless marriage will sober you. Try to make a good use of its lessons I am sending you a biscuit