Dolly Dialogues [25]
Miss Phyllis opened her eyes.
"How old do I look, Miss Phyllis?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said uncomfortably.
"Guess," said I sternly.
"F-forty-three--oh, or forty-two?" she asked, with a timid upward glance.
"When you've done your nonsense--" began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm.
"Should you call me fat?" I asked.
"Oh, no; not fat," said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.
"I am undoubtedly bald," I observed.
"You're certainly bald," said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor.
I took my hat and remarked: "A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch."
"You said you would," cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly.
I poised the letter in my hand, reading again "Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman." Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently.
"Who knows," said I, "that I may not be a Romance--a Vanished Dream--a Green Memory--an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch."
"Do you mean that you used to know Miss Bannerman?" asked Mrs. Hilary in her pleasant prosaic way.
It was a sin seventeen years old; it would hardly count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. "You may tell her when I'm gone," said I to Miss Phyllis.
Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary's ear.
"Another?" cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast.
"It was the very first," said I, defending myself.
Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my hat.
"Tell her," said I, "that I remembered her very well."
"I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Hilary.
"And tell her," I continued, "that I am still handsome."
"I shan't say a word about you," said Mrs. Hilary.
"Ah, well, that will be better still," said I.
"She'll have forgotten your very name," remarked Mrs. Hilary.
I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I turned round and observed:
"I dare say her hair's just as soft as ever. Still--I'll lunch some other day."
A VERY FINE DAY
"I see nothing whatever to laugh at," said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished.
"I did not ask you to laugh," I observed mildly. "I mentioned it merely as a typical case."
"It's not typical," she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added:
"Poor boy! I'm not surprised."
"I'm not surprised either," I remarked. "It is, however, extremely deplorable."
"It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?"
"A book," I observed, "might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would--?"
By the way, I might as well state what he--that is, my young cousin George--had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.
Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
"I've got to go up tomorrow," he remarked.
"Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town," said I.
"D----d hole," observed George.
I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.
A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.
"George, George!" I cried. "There she is--Look!"
George looked, raised his hat with sufficient politeness, and remarked to me:
"Hang it, one sees those people everywhere."
I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned to George with an expression of wonder.
"A fortnight ago--" I began.
"Don't be an ass, Sam," said George, rather sharply. "She's not a bad girl, but--" He broke off and began to whistle. There was a long pause. I lit a cigar, and looked at the people.
"I lunched at the Micklehams' today," said George, drawing a figure on the gravel with his cane. "Mickleham's not a bad
"How old do I look, Miss Phyllis?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said uncomfortably.
"Guess," said I sternly.
"F-forty-three--oh, or forty-two?" she asked, with a timid upward glance.
"When you've done your nonsense--" began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm.
"Should you call me fat?" I asked.
"Oh, no; not fat," said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.
"I am undoubtedly bald," I observed.
"You're certainly bald," said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor.
I took my hat and remarked: "A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch."
"You said you would," cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly.
I poised the letter in my hand, reading again "Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman." Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently.
"Who knows," said I, "that I may not be a Romance--a Vanished Dream--a Green Memory--an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch."
"Do you mean that you used to know Miss Bannerman?" asked Mrs. Hilary in her pleasant prosaic way.
It was a sin seventeen years old; it would hardly count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. "You may tell her when I'm gone," said I to Miss Phyllis.
Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary's ear.
"Another?" cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast.
"It was the very first," said I, defending myself.
Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my hat.
"Tell her," said I, "that I remembered her very well."
"I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Hilary.
"And tell her," I continued, "that I am still handsome."
"I shan't say a word about you," said Mrs. Hilary.
"Ah, well, that will be better still," said I.
"She'll have forgotten your very name," remarked Mrs. Hilary.
I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I turned round and observed:
"I dare say her hair's just as soft as ever. Still--I'll lunch some other day."
A VERY FINE DAY
"I see nothing whatever to laugh at," said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished.
"I did not ask you to laugh," I observed mildly. "I mentioned it merely as a typical case."
"It's not typical," she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added:
"Poor boy! I'm not surprised."
"I'm not surprised either," I remarked. "It is, however, extremely deplorable."
"It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?"
"A book," I observed, "might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would--?"
By the way, I might as well state what he--that is, my young cousin George--had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.
Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
"I've got to go up tomorrow," he remarked.
"Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town," said I.
"D----d hole," observed George.
I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.
A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.
"George, George!" I cried. "There she is--Look!"
George looked, raised his hat with sufficient politeness, and remarked to me:
"Hang it, one sees those people everywhere."
I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned to George with an expression of wonder.
"A fortnight ago--" I began.
"Don't be an ass, Sam," said George, rather sharply. "She's not a bad girl, but--" He broke off and began to whistle. There was a long pause. I lit a cigar, and looked at the people.
"I lunched at the Micklehams' today," said George, drawing a figure on the gravel with his cane. "Mickleham's not a bad