Dolly Dialogues [16]
hair was down to dry, and you said I looked like a mermaid."
"Do mermaids wear white serge?" I asked; but nobody took the least notice of me--quite properly.
"And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were late for lunch."
"Yes," said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, "and your mother gave me an awful glance."
"Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you couldn't help it; and you said you supposed I couldn't possibly--"
"Well, I didn't think--!"
"And I said you were a silly old thing; and then--" Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly.
"How lovely," remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.
"And do you remember," pursued Mrs. Hilary, laying down her embroidery and clasping her hands on her knees, "the morning you went to see father?"
"What a row there was!" said Hilary.
"And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable in all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there--and I mightn't speak to you!"
"I remember," said Hilary, nodding gently.
"And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I'd never marry any one else. And father said, 'There, there, don't cry. We'll see what mother says.'"
"Your mother was a brick," said Hilary, poking the fire.
"And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn't even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag--no, Hilary, don't say it was pretty!"
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
"And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and--do you remember after dinner, Hilary?"
"I remember," said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis's eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife--I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.
"How perfectly lovely!" she said.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hilary, reflectively. "And we were married three months afterwards."
"Tenth of June," said Hilary reflectively.
"And we had the most charming little rooms in the world! Do you remember those first rooms, dear? So tiny!"
"Not bad little rooms," said Hilary.
"How awfully lovely," cried little Miss Phyllis.
I felt that it was time to interfere.
"And is that all?" I asked.
"All? How do you mean?" said Mrs. Hilary, with a slight start.
"Well, I mean, did nothing else happen? Weren't there any complications? Weren't there any more troubles, or any more opposition, or any misunderstandings, or anything?"
"No," said Mrs. Hilary.
"You never quarreled, or broke it off?"
"No."
"Nobody came between you?"
"No. It all went just perfectly. Why, of course it did."
"Hilary's people made themselves nasty, perhaps?" I suggested, with a ray of hope.
"They fell in love with her on the spot," said Hilary.
Then I rose and stood with my back to the fire.
"I do not know," I observed," what Miss Phyllis thinks about it--"
"I think it was just perfect, Mr. Carter."
"But for my part, I can only say that I never heard of such a dull affair in all my life."
"Dull!" gasped Miss Phyllis.
"Dull!" murmured Mrs. Hilary.
"Dull!" chuckled Hilary.
"It was," said I severely, "without a spark of interest from beginning to end. Such things happen by thousands. It's commonplaceness itself. I had some hopes when you father assumed a firm attitude, but--"
"Mother was such a dear," interrupted Mrs. Hilary.
"Just so. She gave away the whole situation. Then I did trust that Hilary would lose his place, or develop an old flame, or do something just a little interesting."
"It was a perfect time," said Mrs. Hilary.
"I wonder why in the world you told me about it," I pursued.
"I don't know why I did," said Mrs. Hilary dreamily.
"The
"Do mermaids wear white serge?" I asked; but nobody took the least notice of me--quite properly.
"And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were late for lunch."
"Yes," said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, "and your mother gave me an awful glance."
"Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you couldn't help it; and you said you supposed I couldn't possibly--"
"Well, I didn't think--!"
"And I said you were a silly old thing; and then--" Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly.
"How lovely," remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.
"And do you remember," pursued Mrs. Hilary, laying down her embroidery and clasping her hands on her knees, "the morning you went to see father?"
"What a row there was!" said Hilary.
"And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable in all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there--and I mightn't speak to you!"
"I remember," said Hilary, nodding gently.
"And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I'd never marry any one else. And father said, 'There, there, don't cry. We'll see what mother says.'"
"Your mother was a brick," said Hilary, poking the fire.
"And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn't even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag--no, Hilary, don't say it was pretty!"
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
"And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and--do you remember after dinner, Hilary?"
"I remember," said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis's eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife--I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.
"How perfectly lovely!" she said.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hilary, reflectively. "And we were married three months afterwards."
"Tenth of June," said Hilary reflectively.
"And we had the most charming little rooms in the world! Do you remember those first rooms, dear? So tiny!"
"Not bad little rooms," said Hilary.
"How awfully lovely," cried little Miss Phyllis.
I felt that it was time to interfere.
"And is that all?" I asked.
"All? How do you mean?" said Mrs. Hilary, with a slight start.
"Well, I mean, did nothing else happen? Weren't there any complications? Weren't there any more troubles, or any more opposition, or any misunderstandings, or anything?"
"No," said Mrs. Hilary.
"You never quarreled, or broke it off?"
"No."
"Nobody came between you?"
"No. It all went just perfectly. Why, of course it did."
"Hilary's people made themselves nasty, perhaps?" I suggested, with a ray of hope.
"They fell in love with her on the spot," said Hilary.
Then I rose and stood with my back to the fire.
"I do not know," I observed," what Miss Phyllis thinks about it--"
"I think it was just perfect, Mr. Carter."
"But for my part, I can only say that I never heard of such a dull affair in all my life."
"Dull!" gasped Miss Phyllis.
"Dull!" murmured Mrs. Hilary.
"Dull!" chuckled Hilary.
"It was," said I severely, "without a spark of interest from beginning to end. Such things happen by thousands. It's commonplaceness itself. I had some hopes when you father assumed a firm attitude, but--"
"Mother was such a dear," interrupted Mrs. Hilary.
"Just so. She gave away the whole situation. Then I did trust that Hilary would lose his place, or develop an old flame, or do something just a little interesting."
"It was a perfect time," said Mrs. Hilary.
"I wonder why in the world you told me about it," I pursued.
"I don't know why I did," said Mrs. Hilary dreamily.
"The