“Were you ever in love?” she asked, just avoiding a brougham which contained the Duchess of Dexminster. (If, by the way, I have to run into anyone, I like it to be a Duchess; you get a much handsomer paragraph.) “Yes,” said I. “Often?” “Oh, not too often, and I always take great care, you know.” “What of?” “That it shall be quite out of the question, you know. It’s not at all difficult. I only have to avoid persons of moderate means.” “But aren’t you a person of--?” “Exactly. That’s why. So I choose either a pauper--when it’s impossible--or an heiress--when it’s preposterous. See?” “But don’t you ever want to get--?” began Miss Phaeton. “Let’s talk about something else,” said I. “I believe you’re humbuggin’ me,” said Miss Phaeton. “I am offering a veiled apology,” said I. “Stuff!” said she. “You know you told Dolly Foster that I should make an excellent wife for a trainer.” Oh, these women! A man had better talk to a phonograph. “Or anybody else,” said I politely. Miss Phaeton whipped up her horses. “Look out! There’s the mounted policeman,” I cried. “No, he isn’t. Are you afraid?” she retorted. “I’m not fit to die,” I pleaded. “I don’t care a pin for your opinion, you know,” she continued (I had never supposed that she did); “but what did you mean by it?” “I never said it.” “Oh!” “All right--I never did.” “Then Dolly invented it?” “Of course,” said I steadily. “On your honor?” “Oh, come, Miss Phaeton!” “Would--would other people think so?” she asked, with a highly surprising touch of timidity. “Nobody would,” I said. “Only a snarling old wretch would say so, just because he thought it smart.” There was a long pause. Then Miss Phaeton asked me abruptly: “You never met him, did you?” “No.” A pause ensued. We passed the Duchess again, and scratched the nose of her poodle, which was looking out of the carriage window. Miss Phaeton flicked Rhino, and the groom behind went plop-plop on the seat. “He lives in town, you know,” remarked Miss Phaeton. “They mostly do--and write about the country,” said I. “Why shouldn’t they?” she asked fiercely. “My dear Miss Phaeton, by all means let them,” said I. “He’s awfully clever, you know,” she continued; “but he wouldn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sat and said nothin’, or read a book.” A sudden intuition discovered Mr. Gay’s feelings to me. “You were talking about the run, or something, I suppose?” “Yes, or the bag, you know.” As she spoke she pulled up Ready and Rhino. The little groom jumped down and stood under (not at) their heads. I leant back and surveyed the crowd sitting and walking. Miss Phaeton flicked a fly off Rhino’s ear, put her whip in the socket, and leant back also. “Then I suppose you didn’t care much about him?” I asked. “Oh, I liked him pretty well,” she answered very carelessly.