“Why not go with Archie?” I asked, spreading out my hands. “It will be dull enough, anyhow,” said Dolly, fretfully. “Besides, it’s awfully¹ bourgeois² to go to the theater with one’s husband.”
 
“Bourgeois,” I observed, “is an epithet³ which the riffraff apply to what is respectable, and the aristocracy to what is decent.”
 
“But it’s not a nice thing to be, all the same,” said Dolly, who is impervious⁴ to the most penetrating⁵ remark.
 
“You’re in no danger of it,” I hastened to assure her.
 
“How should you describe me, then?” she asked, leaning forward, with a smile.
 
“I should describe you, Lady Mickleham,” I replied discreetly⁶, “as being a little lower than the angels.”
 
Dolly’s smile was almost a laugh as she asked:
 
“How much lower, please, Mr. Carter?”
 
“Just by the depth of your dimples,” said I thoughtlessly.
 
Dolly became immensely grave.
 
“I thought,” said she, “that we never mentioned them now, Mr. Carter.”
 
“Did we ever?” I asked innocently.
 
“I seemed to remember once: do you recollect⁷ being in very low spirits one evening at Monte?”
 
“I remember being in very low water more than one evening there.”
 
“Yes; you told me you were terribly hard-up.”
 
“There was an election in our division that year,” I remarked, “and I remitted⁸ 30 percent of my rents.”
 
“You did—to M. Blanc,” said Dolly. “Oh, and you were very dreary⁹! You said you’d wasted your life and your time and your opportunities.”
 
“Oh, you mustn’t suppose I never have any proper feelings,” said I complacently¹⁰.
 
“I think you were hardly yourself.”
 
“Do be more charitable.”
 
“And you said that your only chance was in gaining the affection of—”
 
“Surely, I was not such an—so foolish?” I implored¹¹.
 
“Yes, you were. You were sitting close by me—”
 
“Oh, then, it doesn’t count,” said I, rallying a little.
 
“On a bench. You remember the bench?”
 
“No, I don’t,” said I, with a kind but firm smile.
 
“Not the bench?”
 
“No.”
 
Dolly looked at me, then she asked in an insinuating¹² tone—
 
“When did you forget it, Mr. Carter?”
 
“The day you were buried,” I rejoined.
 
“I see. Well, you said then what you couldn’t possibly have meant.”
 
“I dare say. I often did.”
 
“That they were—”
 
“That what were?”
 
“Why, the—the—what we’re talking about.”
 
“What we were—? Oh, to be sure, the—the blemishes¹³?”
 
“Yes, the blemishes. You said they were the most—”
 
“Oh, well, it was a facon de parler.”
 
“I was afraid you weren’t a bit sincere,” said Dolly humbly¹⁴.
 
“Well, judge by yourself,” said I with a candid¹⁵ air.
 
“But I said nothing!” cried Dolly.
 
“It was incomparably the most artistic¹⁶ thing to do,” said I.
 
“I’m sometimes afraid you don’t do me justice, Mr. Carter,” remarked Dolly with some pathos¹⁷.
 
I did not care to enter upon that discussion, and a pause followed. Then Dolly, in a timid manner, asked me—
 
“Do you remember the dreadful thing that happened the same evening?”
 
“That chances to remain in my memory,” I admitted.
 
“I’ve always thought it kind of you never to speak of it,” said she.
 
“It is best forgotten,” said I, smiling.
 
“We should have said the same about anybody,” protested Dolly.
 
“Certainly. We were only trying to be smart,” said I.
 
“And it was horribly unjust.”
 
“I quite agree with you, Lady Mickleham.”
 
“Besides, I didn’t know anything about him then. He had only arrived that day, you see.”
 
“Really we were not to blame,” I urged.
 
“Oh, but doesn’t it seem funny?”
 
“A strange whirligig, no doubt,” I mused¹⁸.
 
There was a pause. Then the faintest of smiles appeared on Dolly’s face.
 
“He shouldn’t have worn such clothes,” she said, as though in self defense¹⁹. “An............