“by the merest chance,” i observed meditatively, “i attended a reception last night.”

“i went to three,” said lady mickleham, selecting a sardine sandwich with care.

“i might not have gone,” i mused, “i might easily not have gone.”

“i can’t see what difference it would have made if you hadn’t,” said she.

“i thought three times about going. it’s a curious world.”

“what happened? you may smoke, you know.”

“i fell in love,” said i, lighting a cigarette.

lady mickleham placed her feet on the fender—it was a chilly afternoon—and turned her face to me, shielding it from the fire with her handkerchief.

“men of your age,” she remarked, “have no business to be thinking of such things.”

“i was not thinking of it,” said i. “i was thinking of going home. then i was introduced to her.”

“and you stayed a little, i suppose?”

“i stayed two hours—or two minutes,—i forget which—“; and, i added, nodding my head at lady mickleham, “there was something irresistible about me last night.”

lady mickleham laughed.

“you seem very pleased with yourself,” she said, reaching for a fan to replace the handkerchief.

“yes, take care of your complexion,” said i approvingly. “she has a lovely complexion.”

lady mickleham laid down the fan.

“i am very pleased with myself,” i continued. “she was delighted with me.”

“i suppose you talked nonsense to her.”

“i have not the least idea what i talked to her. it was quite immaterial. the language of the eyes—”

“oh, you might be a boy!”

“i was,” said i, nodding again.

there was a long silence. dolly looked at me; i looked at the fire. i did not, however, see the fire. i saw something quite different.

“she liked me very much,” i observed, stretching my hands out toward the blaze.

“you absurd old man!—” said dolly. “was she very charming?”

“she was perfect.”

“how? clever?”

i waved my hand impatiently.

“pretty, mr. carter?”

“why, of course; the prettiest picture i ever—but that goes without saying.”

“it would have gone better without saying,” remarked dolly. “considering—”

to have asked “considering what?” would have been the acme of bad taste.

i merely smiled, and waved my hand again.

“you’re quite serious about it, aren’t you?” said dolly.

“i should think i was,” said i indignantly. “not to be serious in such a matter is to waste it utterly.”

“i’ll come to the wedding,” said dolly.

“there won’t be a wedding,” said i. “there are reasons.”

“oh! you’re very unlucky, mr. carter.”

“that,” i observed, “is as it may be, lady mickleham.”

“were the reasons at the reception?”

“they were. it made no difference.”

“it’s very curious,” remarked dolly with a compassionate air, “that you always manage to admire people whom somebody else has married.”

“it would be very curious,” i rejoined, “if somebody had not married the people whom i admire. last night, though, i made nothing of his sudden removal; my fancy rioted in accidental deaths for him.”

“he won’t die,” said dolly.

“i hate that sort of superstition,” said i irritably. “he’s just as likely to die as any other man is.”

“he certainly won’t die,” said dolly.

“well, i know he won’t. do let it alone,” said i, much exasperated. it was probably only kindness, but dolly suddenly turned her eyes away from me and fixed them on the fire; she took the fan up again and twirled it in her hand; a queer little smile bent her lips.

“i hope the poor man won’t die,” said dolly in a low voice.

“if he had died last night!” i cried longingly. then, with a regretful shrug of my shoulders, i added, “let him live now to the crack of doom!”

somehow this restored my good humor. i rose and stood with my back to the fire, stretching myself and sighing luxuriously. dolly leant back in her chair and laughed at me.

“do you expect to be forgiven?” she asked.

“no, no,” said i; “i had too good an excuse.”

“i wish i’d been there—at the reception, i mean.”

“i’m extremely glad you weren’t, lady mickleham. as it was i forgot all my troubles.”

dolly is not resentful; she did not mind the implied description. she leant back, smiling still. i sighed again, smiled at dolly, and took my hat. then i turned to the mirror over the mantelpiece, arranged my necktie, and gave my hair a touch.

“no one,” i observed, “can afford to neglect the niceties of the toilet. those dainty little curls on the forehead—”

“you’ve had none there for ten years,” cried lady mickleham.

“i did not mean my forehead,” said i.

sighing once again, i held out my hand to dolly.

“are you doing anything this evening?” she asked.

“that depends on what i’m asked to do,” said i cautiously.

“well, archie’s going to be at the house, and i thought you might take me to the phaetons’ party. it’s quite a long drive, a horrible long drive, mr. carter.”

i stood for a moment considering this proposal.

“i don’t think,” said i, “that it would be proper.”

“why, archie suggested it! you’re making an excuse. you know you are!” and lady mickleham looked very indignant. “as if,” she added scornfully, “you cared about what was proper!”

i dropped into a chair, and said, in a confidential tone, “i don’t care a pin. it was a mere excuse. i don’t want to come.”

“you’re very rude, indeed. many women would never speak to you again.”

“they would,” said i, “all do just as you will.”

“and what’s that, mr. carter.”

“ask me again on the first opportunity.”

“why won’t you come?” said dolly, waiving this question.

i bent forward, holding my hat in my left hand and sawing the air with my right forefinger.

“you fail to allow,” said i impressively, “for the rejuvenescence which recent events have produced in me. if i came with you this evening, i should be quite capable—” i paused.

“of anything dreadful?” asked dolly.

“of paying you pronounced attentions,” said i gravely.

“that,” said dolly with equal gravity, “would be very regrettable. it would be unjust to me—and very insulting to her, mr. carter.”

“it would be the finest testimonial to her,” i cried.

“and you’ll spend the evening thinking of her?” asked dolly.

“i shall go through the evening,” said i, “in the best way i can.” and i smiled contentedly.

“what’s her husband?” asked dolly suddenly.

“her husband,” i rejoined, “is nothing at all.”

dolly, receiving this answer, looked at me with a pathetic air.

“it’s not quite fair,” she observed. “do you know what i’m thinking about, mr. carter?”

“certainly i do, lady mickleham. you are thinking that you would like to meet me for the first time.”

“not at all. i was thinking that it would be amusing if you met me for the first time.”

i said nothing. dolly rose and walked to the window. she swung the tassel of the blind and it bumped against the window. the failing sun caught her ruddy brown hair. there were curls on her forehead, too.

“it’s a grand world,” said i. “and, after all, one can grow old very gradually.”

“you’re not really old,” said dolly, with the fleetest glance at me. a glance should not be over-long.

“gradually and disgracefully,” i murmured.

“if you met me for the first time—” said dolly, swinging the tassel.

“by heaven, it should be the last!” i cried, and i rose to my feet.

dolly let the tassel go, and made me a very pretty curtsey.

“i am going to another party tonight,” said i, nodding my head significantly.

“ah!” said dolly.

“and i shall again,” i pursued, “spend my time with the prettiest woman in the room.”

“shall you?” asked dolly, smiling.

“i am a very fortunate fellow,” i observed. “and as for mrs. hilary, she may say what she likes.”

“oh, does mrs. hilary know the other lady?”

i walked toward the door.

“there is,” said i, laying my hand on the door, “no other lady.”

“i shall get there about eleven,” said dolly.