Dolly Dialogues. Anthony Hope

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      “I may catch a glimpse of her in her carriage from the top of my ‘bus,” said I.

      Lady Mickleham rang the bell. I stooped for my hat. To tell the truth, I was rather afraid to expose myself in such a defenseless attitude, but the Countess preserved her self control. The butler opened the door. I bowed, and left the Countess regarding me through the maimed “starers.” Then I found the butler smiling. He probably knew the signs of the weather. I wouldn’t be Lady Mickleham’s butler if you made me a duke.

      As I walked home through the Park, I met Miss Dolly and Mickleham. They stopped.

      I walked on. Mickleham seized me by the coat tails.

      “Do you mean to cut us?” he cried.

      “Yes,” said I.

      “Why, what the deuce?—” he began.

      “I’ve seen your mother,” said I. “I wish, Mickleham, that when you do happen to intrude as you did the other day, you wouldn’t repeat what you see.”

      “Lord!” he cried. “She’s not heard of that. I only told Aunt Cynthia.”

      I said something about “Aunt Cynthia.”

      “Does—does she know it all?” asked Miss Dolly.

      “More than all—much more.”

      “Didn’t you smooth it over?” said Miss Dolly reproachfully.

      “On reflection,” said I, “I don’t know that I did—much.” (I hadn’t, you know.)

      Suddenly Mickleham burst out laughing.

      “What a game!” he exclaimed.

      “That’s all very well for you,” said Dolly. “But do you happen to remember that we dine there tonight?” Archie grew grave.

      “I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves,” said I. “I always cling to the belief that the wicked are punished.” And I looked at Miss Dolly.

      “Never you mind, little woman,” said Archie, drawing Miss Dolly’s arm through his, “I’ll see you through. After all, everybody knows that old Carter’s an ass.”

      That piece of universal knowledge may help matters, but I do not quite see how. I walked on, for Miss Dolly had quite forgotten me, and was looking up at Archie Mickleham like—well, hang it, in the way they do, you know. So I just walked on.

      I believe Miss Dolly has got a husband who is (let us say) good enough for her. And, for one reason and another, I am glad of it. And I also believe that she knows it. And I am—I suppose—glad of that, too. Oh, yes, of course, I am. Of course.

THE PERVERSENESS OF IT

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      “I tell you what, Mr. Carter,” said Miss Nellie Phaeton, touching up Rhino with her whip, “love in a cottage is—”

      “Lord forgive us, cinders, ashes, dust,” I quoted.

      We were spanking round the Park behind Ready and Rhino. Miss Phaeton’s horses are very large; her groom is very small, and her courage is indomitable. I am no great hand at driving myself, and I am not always quite comfortable. Moreover, the stricter part of my acquaintance consider, I believe, that Miss Phaeton’s attentions to me are somewhat pronounced, and that I ought not to drive with her in the Park.

      “You’re right,” she went on. “What a girl wants is a good house and lots of cash, and some ridin’ and a little huntin’ and—”

      “A few g’s!’ ” I cried in shuddering entreaty. “If you love me, a g’ or two.”

      “Well, I suppose so,” said she. “You can’t go ridin’ without gees, can you?”

      Apparently one could go driving without any, but I did not pursue the subject.

      “It’s only in stories that people are in love when they marry,” observed Miss Phaeton reflectively.

      “Yes, and then it’s generally with somebody else,” said I.

      “Oh, if you count that!” said she, hitting Ready rather viciously. We bounded forward, and I heard the little groom bumping on the back seat. I am always glad not to be a groom—it’s a cup-and-ball sort of life, which must be very wearying.

      “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?”

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