“His father gave him,” said I, “a hundred pounds, to keep him for three months in Paris while he learnt French.”
“And very liberal too,” said Mrs. Hilary.
“It depends where you dine,” said I. “However, that question did not arise, for Algy went to the Grand Prix the day after he arrived—”
“A horse race?” asked Mrs. Hilary with great contempt.
“Certainly the competitors are horses,” I rejoined. “And there he, most unfortunately, lost the whole sum, without learning any French to speak of.”
“How disgusting!” exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, and little Miss Phyllis gasped2 in horror.
“Oh, well,” said Hilary, with much bravery (as it struck me), “his father’s very well off.”
“That doesn’t make it a bit better, declared his wife.
“There’s no mortal sin in a little betting, my dear. Boys will be boys—”
“And even that,” I interposed, “wouldn’t matter if we could only prevent girls from being girls.”
Mrs. Hilary, taking no notice whatever of me, pronounced sentence. “He grossly deceived his father,” she said, and took up her embroidery3.
“Most of us have grossly deceived our parents before now,” said I. “We should all have to confess to something of the sort.”
“I hope you’re speaking for your own sex,” observed Mrs. Hilary.
“Not more than yours,” said I. “You used to meet Hilary on the pier4 when your father wasn’t there—you told me so.”
“Father had authorized5 my acquaintance with Hilary.”
“I hate quibbles,” said I.
There was a pause. Mrs. Hilary stitched; Hilary observed that the day was fine.
“Now,” I pursued carelessly, “even Miss Phyllis here has been known to deceive her parents.”
“Oh, let the poor child alone, anyhow,” said Mrs. Hilary.
“Haven’t you?” said I to Miss Phyllis.
I expected an indignant denial. So did Mrs. Hilary, for she remarked with a sympathetic air:
“Never mind his folly6, Phyllis dear.”
“Haven’t you, Miss Phyllis?” said I.
Miss Phyllis grew very red. Fearing that I was causing her pain, I was about to observe on the prospects7 of a Dissolution when a shy smile spread over Miss Phyllis’s face.
“Yes, once,” said she with a timid glance at Mrs. Hilary, who immediately laid down her embroidery.
“Out with it,” I cried, triumphantly8. “Come along, Miss Phyllis. We won’t tell, honor bright!”
Miss Phyllis looked again at Mrs. Hilary. Mrs. Hilary is human:
“Well, Phyllis, dear,” said she, “after all this time I shouldn’t think it my duty—”
“It only happened last summer,” said Miss Phyllis.
Mrs. Hilary looked rather put out.
“Still,” she began.
“We must have the story,” said I.
Little Miss Phyllis put down the sock she had been knitting.
“I was very naughty,” she remarked. “It was my last term at school.”
“I know that age,” said I to Hilary.
“My window looked out towards the street. You’re sure you won’t tell? Well, there was a house opposite—”
“And a young man in it,” said I.
“How did you know that?” asked Miss Phyllis, blushing immensely.
“No girls’ school can keep up its numbers without one,” I explained.
“Well, there was, anyhow,” said Miss Phyllis. “And I and two other girls went to a course of lectures at the Town Hall on literature or something of that kind. We used to have a shilling given us for our tickets.”
“Precisely,” said I. “A hundred pounds!”
“No, a shilling,” corrected Miss Phyllis. “A hundred pounds! How absurd, Mr. Carter! Well, one day I—I—”
“You’re sure you wish to go on, Phyllis?” asked Mrs. Hilary.
“You’re afraid, Mrs. Hilary,” said I severely9.
“Nonsense, Mr. Carter. I thought Phyllis might—”
“I don’t mind going on,” said Miss Phyllis, smiling. “One day I—I lost the other girls.”
“The other girls are always easy to lose,” I observed.
“And on the way there—oh, you know, he went to the lectures.”
“The young dog,” said I, nudging Hilary. “I should think he did!”
“On the way there it became rather—rather foggy.”
“Blessings on it!” I cried; for little Miss Phyllis’s
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