“What’s her husband?” asked Dolly suddenly.
“Her husband,” I rejoined, “is nothing at all.”
Dolly, receiving this answer, looked at me with a pathetic air.
“It’s not quite fair,” she observed. “Do you know what I’m thinking about, Mr. Carter?”
“Certainly I do, Lady Mickleham. You are thinking that you would like to meet me for the first time.”
“Not at all. I was thinking that it would be amusing if you met me for the first time.”
I said nothing. Dolly rose and walked to the window. She swung the tassel of the blind and it bumped against the window. The failing sun caught her ruddy brown hair. There were curls on her forehead, too.
“It’s a grand world,” said I. “And, after all, one can grow old very gradually.”
“You’re not really old,” said Dolly, with the fleetest glance at me. A glance should not be over-long.
“Gradually and disgracefully,” I murmured.