So I read it. The silly fellow had written:
Life is Love, the poets tell us, In the little books they sell us; But pray, ma’am—what’s of Life the Use, If Life be Love? For Love’s the Deuce.
Dolly began to laugh gently, digging the pin again into her hat.
“I wonder,” she said, “whether they used to come and sit by this old dial just as we did this morning!”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said I. “And another point occurs to me, Lady Mickleham.”
“Oh, does it? What’s that, Mr. Carter?”
“Do you think that anybody measured the rain gauge!”
Dolly looked at me very gravely.
“I’m so sorry when you do that,” said she pathetically.
I smiled.