Dolly Dialogues. Anthony Hope

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      At this moment, looking along the walk, I saw a man coming toward us. He was a handsome fellow, with just a touch of “softness” in his face. He was dressed in correct fashion, save that his hair was a trifle longer, his coat a trifle fuller, his hat a trifle larger, his tie a trifle looser than they were worn by most. He caught my attention, and I went on looking at him for a little while, till a light movement of my companion’s made me turn my head.

      Miss Phaeton was sitting bolt upright; she fidgeted with the reins; she took her whip out of the socket and put it back again; and, to my amazement, her cheeks were very red.

      Presently the man came opposite the carriage. Miss Phaeton bowed. He lifted his hat, smiled, and made as if to pass on. Miss Phaeton held out her hand. I could see a momentary gleam of surprise in his eyes, as though he thought her cordiality more than he might have looked for—possibly even more than he cared about. But he stopped and shook hands.

      “How are you, Mr. Gay?” she said, not introducing me.

      “Still with your inseparables!” he said gayly, with a wave of his hand towards the horses. “I hope, Miss Phaeton, that in the next world your faithful steeds will be allowed to bear you company, or what will you do?”

      “O, you think I care for nothin’ but horses?” said she petulantly, but she leant towards him, and gave me her shoulder.

      “O, no,” he laughed. “Dogs, also, and, I’m afraid, one day it was ferrets, wasn’t it?”

      “Have—have you written any poetry lately?” she asked.

      “How conscientious of you to inquire!” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. “O, yes, a hundred things. Have you—killed—anything lately?”

      I could swear she flushed again. Her voice trembled as she answered:

      “No, not lately.”

      I caught sight of his face behind her back and I thought I saw a trace of puzzle—nothing more. He held out his hand.

      “Well, so glad to have seen you, Miss Phaeton,” said he, “but I must run on. Goodbye.”

      “Goodbye, Mr. Gay,” said she.

      And, lifting his hat again, smiling again gayly, he was gone. For a moment or two I said nothing. Then I remarked:

      “So that’s your friend Gay, is it? He’s not a bad-looking fellow.”

      “Yes, that’s him,” said she, and, as she spoke, she sank back in her seat for a moment. I did not look at her face. Then she sat up straight again and took the whip.

      “Want to stay any longer?” she asked.

      “No,” said I.

      The little groom sprang away, Rhino and Ready dashed ahead.

      “Shall I drop you at the club?” she asked. “I’m goin’ home.”

      “I’ll get out here,” said I.

      We came to a stand again, and I got down.

      “Goodbye,” I said.

      She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage was tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for dear life.

      Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least suited to him; she’d make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it seems a little perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least between the courses at dinner I caught myself being sorry for her. It is, when you think of it, so remarkably perverse.

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