“F-forty-three—oh, or forty-two?” she asked, with a timid upward glance.
“When you’ve done your nonsense—” began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm.
“Should you call me fat?” I asked.
“Oh, no; not fat,” said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.
“I am undoubtedly bald,” I observed.
“You’re certainly bald,” said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor.
I took my hat and remarked: “A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch.”
“You said you would,” cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly.
I poised the letter in my hand, reading again “Miss M(aud) E(lizabeth) Bannerman.” Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently.
“Who knows,” said I, “that I may not be a Romance—a Vanished Dream—a Green Memory—an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch.”