“It’s the very latest thing,” said Lady Mickleham, standing¹ by the table in the smoking room, and holding an album in her hand.  
“I wish it had been a little later still,” said I, for I felt embarrassed.
 
“You promise, on your honor, to be absolutely sincere, you know, and then you write what you think of me. See what a lot of opinions I’ve got already,” and she held up the thick album.
 
“It would be extremely interesting to read them,” I observed.
 
“Oh! but they’re quite confidential,” said Dolly. “That’s part of the fun.”
 
“I don’t appreciate that part,” said I.
 
“Perhaps you will when you’ve written yours,” suggested Lady Mickleham.
 
“Meanwhile, mayn’t I see the Dowager’s?”
 
“Well, I’ll show you a little bit of the Dowager’s. Look here: Our dear Dorothea is still perhaps just a thought wanting in seriousness, but the sense of her position is having a sobering effect.’”
 
“I hope not,” I exclaimed apprehensively². “Whose is this?”
 
“Archie’s.”
 
“May I see a bit—?”
 
“Not a bit,” said Dolly. “Archie’s is—is rather foolish, Mr. Carter.”
 
“So I suppose,” said I.
 
“Dear boy!” said Dolly reflectively.
 
“I hate sentiment,” said I. “Here’s a long one. Who wrote—?”
 
“Oh, you mustn’t look at that—not at that, above all!”
 
“Why above all?” I asked with some severity.
 
Dolly smiled; then she observed in a soothing³ tone.
 
“Perhaps it won’t be ‘above all’ when you’ve written yours, Mr. Carter.”
 
“By the way,” I said carelessly, “I suppose Archie sees all of them?”
 
“He has never asked to see them,” answered Lady Mickleham.
 
The reply seemed satisfactory; of course, Archie had only to ask. I took a clean quill⁴ and prepared to write.
 
“You promise to be sincere, you know,” Dolly reminded me.
 
I laid down my pen.
 
“Impossible!” said I firmly.
 
“O, but why, Mr. Carter?”
 
“There would be an end of our friendship.”
 
“Do you think as badly of me as all that?” asked Dolly with a rueful air.
 
I leant back in my chair, and looked at Dolly. She looked at me. She smiled. I may have smiled.
 
“Yes,” said I.
 
“Then you needn’t write it quite all down,” said Dolly.
 
“I am obliged,” said I, taking up my pen.
 
“You mustn’t say what isn’t true, but you needn’t say everything that is—that might be—true,” explained Dolly.
 
This, again, seemed satisfactory. I began to write, Dolly sitting opposite me with her elbows on the table, and watching me.
 
After ten minutes’ steady work, which included several pauses for reflection, I threw down the pen, leant back in my chair, and lit a cigarette.
 
“Now read it,” said Dolly, her chin in her hands and her eyes fixed⁵ on me.
 
“It is, on the whole,” I observed, “complimentary.”
 
“No, really,” said Dolly. “Yet you promised to be sincere.”
 
“You would not have had me disagreeable?” I asked.
 
“That’s a different thing,” said Dolly. “Read it, please.”
 
“Lady Mickleham,” I read, “is usually accounted a person of considerable attractions. She is widely popular, and more than one woman has been known to like her.”
 
“I don’t quite understand that,” interrupted Dolly.
 
“It is surely simple,” said I; and I read on without delay. “She is kind even to her husband, and takes the utmost pains to conceal⁶ from her mother-in-law anything calculated to distress⁷ that lady.”
 
“I suppose you mean that to be nice?” said Dolly.
 
“Of course,” I answered; and I proceeded: “She never gives pain to any one, except with the object of giving pleasure to somebody else, and her kindness is no less widely diffused⁸ than it is hearty⁹ and sincere.”
 
“That really is nice,” said Dolly, smiling.
 
“Thank you,” said I, smiling also. “She is very charitable; she takes a pleasure in encouragi............