“Walk in the Row any afternoon,” said I, “and you won’t find ten wiser men.” “It’s this. Ought I to tell Archie?” “Good gracious! Here’s a problem!” “Of course,” pursued Lady Mickleham, opening her fan, “it’s in some ways more comfortable that he shouldn’t know.” “For him?” “Yes--and for me. But then it doesn’t seem quite fair.” “To him?” “Yes--and to me. Because if he came to know from anybody else, he might exaggerate the things, you know.” “Impossible!” “Mr. Carter!” “I--er--mean he knows you too well to do such a thing.” “Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes. What do you think?” “What does the Dowager say?” “I haven’t mentioned it to the Dowager.” “But surely, on such a point, her experience--” “She can’t have any,” said Lady Mickleham decisively. “I believe in her husband, because I must. But nobody else! You’re not giving me your opinion.” I reflected for a moment. “Haven’t we left out one point to view?” I ventured to suggest. “I’ve thought it all over very carefully,” said she; “both as it would affect me and as it would affect Archie.” “Quite so. Now suppose you think how it would affect them?” “Who?” “Why, the men.” Lady Mickleham put down her cup of tea. “What a very curious idea!” she exclaimed. “Give it time to sink in,” said I, helping myself to another piece of toast. She sat silent for a few moments--presumably to allow of the permeation I suggested. I finished my tea and leant back comfortably. Then I said: “Let me take my own case. Shouldn’t I feel rather awkward--?” “Oh, it’s no good taking your case,” she interrupted. “Why not mine as well as another?” “Because I told him about you long ago.” I was not surprised. But I could not permit Lady Mickleham to laugh at me in the unconscionable manner in which she proceeded to laugh. I spread out my hands and observed blandly: “Why not be guided--as to the others, I mean--by your husband’s example?” “Archie’s example? What’s that?” “I don’t know; but you do, I suppose.” “What do you mean, Mr. Carter?” she asked, sitting upright. “Well, has he ever told you about Maggie Adeane?” “I never heard of her.” “Or Lilly Courtenay?” “That girl!” “Or Alice Layton?” “The red-haired Layton?” “Or Florence Cunliffe?” “Who was she?” “Or Millie Trehearne?” “She squints, Mr. Carter.” “Or--” “Stop, stop! What do you mean? What should he tell me?” “Oh, I see he hasn’t. Nor, I suppose, about Sylvia Fenton, or that little Delancy girl, or handsome Miss--what was her name?” “Hold your tongue--and tell me what you mean.” “Lady Mickleham,” said I gravely, “if your husband has not thought fit to mention these ladies--and others whom I could name--to you, how could I presume--?” “Do you mean to tell me that Archie--?” “He’d only known you three years, you see.” “Then it was before--?” “Some of them were before,” said I. Lady Mickleham drew a long breath. “Archie will be in soon,” said she. I took my hat.