Dolly Dialogues. Anthony Hope

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      “Stop!” cried she.

      “ ‘Or a young spendthrift like that man—I forget his name—who you used to go on with at such a pace at Monte Carlo last winter.’ ”

      “Stop!” she cried. “You must stop, Mr. Carter.”

      So then I stopped. I folded the letter and handed it back to her. Her cheeks flushed red as she took it.

      “I thought you were a gentleman,” said she, biting her lip.

      “I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself,” said I.

      “Lord Mickleham,” said the butler, throwing open the door.

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      In future I am going to be careful what I do. I am also—and this is by no means less important—going to be very careful what Miss Dolly Foster does. Everybody knows (if I may quote her particular friend Nellie Phaeton) that dear Dolly means no harm, but she is “just a little harumscarum.” I thanked Miss Phaeton for the expression.

      The fact is that “old lady M.” (Here I quote Miss Dolly) sent for me the other day. I have not the honor of knowing the Countess, and I went in some trepidation. When I was ushered in, Lady Mickleham put up her “starers.” (You know those abominations! Pince-nez with long torture—I mean tortoise—shell handles.)

      “Mr.—er—Carter?” said she.

      I bowed. I would have denied it if I could.

      “My dears!” said Lady Mickleham.

      Upon this five young ladies who had been sitting in five straight-backed chairs, doing five pieces of embroidery, rose, bowed, and filed out of the room. I felt very nervous.

      A pause followed. Then the Countess observed—and it seemed at first rather irrelevant—

      “I’ve been reading an unpleasant story.”

      “In these days of French influence,” I began apologetically (not that I write such stories, or any stories, but Lady Mickleham invites an apologetic attitude), and my eye wandered to the table. I saw nothing worse (or better) than the morning paper there.

      “Contained in a friend’s letter,” she continued, focusing the “starers” full on my face.

      I did not know what to do, so I bowed again.

      “It must have been as painful for her to write as for me to read,” Lady Mickleham went on. “And that is saying much. Be seated, pray.”

      I bowed, and sat down in one of the straight-back chairs. I also began, in my fright, to play with one of the pieces of embroidery.

      “Is Lady Jane’s work in your way?” (Lady Jane is named after Jane, the famous Countess, Lady-in-Waiting to Caroline of Anspach.)

      I dropped the embroidery, and put my foot on my hat.

      “I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted with Miss Dorothea Foster?”

      “I have that pleasure,” said I.

      “Who is about to be married to my son, the Earl of Mickleham?”

      “That, I believe, is so,” said I. I was beginning to pull myself together.

      “My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting disposition. Perhaps I had better come to the point. I am informed by this letter that, in conversation with the writer the other day, Archibald mentioned, quite incidentally, some very startling facts. Those facts concern you, Mr. Carter.”

      “May I ask the name of the writer?”

      “I do not think that is necessary,” said she. “She is a lady in whom I have the utmost confidence.”

      “That is, of course, enough,” said I.

      “It appears, Mr. Carter—and you will excuse me if I speak plainly—(I set my teeth) that you have, in the first place, given to my son’s bride a wedding present, which I can only describe as—”

      “A pearl ornament,” I interposed; “with a ruby or two, and—”

      “A pearl heart,” she corrected; “er—fractured, and that you explained that this absurd article represented your heart.”

      “Mere badinage,” said I.

      “In execrably bad taste,” said she.

      I bowed.

      “In fact, most offensive. But that is not the worst. From my son’s further statements it appears that on one occasion, at least, he found you and Miss Foster engaged in what I can only call—”

      I raised my hand in protest. The Countess took no notice.

      “What I can only call romping.”

      “Romping!” I cried.

      “A thing not only atrociously vulgar at all times, but under the circumstances—need I say more? Mr. Carter, you were engaged in chasing my son’s future bride round a table!”

      “Pardon me, Lady Mickleham. Your son’s future bride was engaged in chasing me round a table.”

      “It is the same thing,” said Lady Mickleham.

      “I should have thought there was a distinction,” said I.

      “None at all.”

      I fell back on a second line of defense.

      “I didn’t let her catch me, Lady Mickleham,” I pleaded.

      Lady Mickleham grew quite red. This made me feel more at my ease.

      “No, sir. If you had—”

      “Goodness knows!” I murmured, shaking my head.

      “As it happened, however, my son entered in the middle of this disgraceful—”

      “It was at the beginning,” said I, with a regretful sigh.

      Upon this—and I have really never been so pleased at anything in all my life—the Countess, the violence of her emotions penetrating to her very fingers, gripped the handle of her “starers” with such force that she broke it in two! She was a woman of the world, and in a moment she looked as if nothing had happened. With me it was different; and that I am not now on Lady Mickleham’s visiting list is due to (inter alia et enormia) the fact that I laughed! It was out before I could help it. In a second I was as grave as a mute. The mischief was done. The Countess rose. I imitated her example.

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