“Thank you,” said I, smiling also. “She is very charitable; she takes a pleasure in encouraging the shy and bashful--” “How do you know that?” asked Dolly. “While,” I pursued, “suffering without impatience a considerable amount of self-assurance.” “You can’t know whether I’m patient or not,” remarked Dolly. “I’m polite.” “She thinks,” I read on, “no evil of the most attractive of women, and has a smile for the most unattractive of men.” “You put that very nicely,” said Dolly, nodding. “The former may constantly be seen in her house--and the latter at least as often as many people would think desirable.” (Here for some reason Dolly laughed.) “Her intellectual powers are not despicable.” “Thank you, Mr. Carter.” “She can say what she means on the occasions on which she wishes to do so, and she is, at other times, equally capable of meaning much more than she would be likely to say.” “How do you mean that, Mr. Carter, please?” “It explains itself,” said I, and I proceeded: “The fact of her receiving a remark with disapprobation does not necessarily mean that it causes her displeasure, nor must it be assumed that she did not expect a visitor merely on the ground that she greets him with surprise.” Here I observed Lady Mickleham looking at me rather suspiciously. “I don’t think that’s quite nice of you, Mr. Carter,” she said pathetically. “Lady Mickleham is, in short,” I went on, coming to my peroration, “equally deserving of esteem and affection--” “Esteem and affection! That sounds just right,” said Dolly approvingly. “And those who have been admitted to the enjoyment of her friendship are unanimous in discouraging all others from seeking a similar privilege.” “I beg your pardon?” cried Lady Mickleham. “Are unanimous,” I repeated, slowly and distinctly, “in discouraging all others from seeking a similar privilege.” Dolly looked at me, with her brow slightly puckered. I leant back, puffing at my cigarette. Presently--for there was quite a long pause--Dolly’s lips curved. “My mental powers are not despicable,” she observed. “I have said so,” said I. “I think I see,” she remarked. “Is there anything wrong?” I asked anxiously. “N-no,” said Dolly, “not exactly wrong. In fact, I rather think I like that last bit best. Still, don’t you think--?” She rose, came round the table, took up the pen, and put it back in my hand. “What’s this for?” I asked. “To correct the mistake,” said Dolly. “Do you really think so?” said I. “I’m afraid so,” said Dolly. I took the pen and made a certain alteration. Dolly took up the album. “‘Are unanimous,’” she read, “in encouraging all others to seek a similar privilege.’ Yes, you meant that, you know, Mr. Carter.” “I suppose I must have,” said I rather sulkily. “The other was nonsense,” urged Dolly. “Oh, utter nonsense,” said I. “And you had to write the truth!” “Yes, I had to write some of it.” “And nonsense can’t be the truth, can it, Mr. Carter?” “Of course it can’t, Lady Mickleham.”