“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.