“Some day,” she said (with total inappropriateness, now I come to think of it, though it did not strike me so at the time), “you’ll be glad to remember having done a kind thing. When you’re old—because you are not really old now—you will say, ‘I’m glad I didn’t send poor Dolly Mickleham away crying.’”
Rhadamanthus uttered an inarticulate sound—half impatience, half, I fancy, something else.
“We are none of us perfect, I dare say. If I asked your wife—”
“I haven’t got a wife,” said Rhadamanthus.
“That’s why you’re so hard-hearted,” said Dolly. “A man who’s got a wife is never hard on other women.”
There was another pause. Then Rhadamanthus, looking straight at the blotting paper, said:
“Oh, well, don’t bother me. Be off with you;” and as he spoke, the door behind him opened.
“Oh, you old dear!” she cried; and, stooping swiftly, she kissed Rhadamanthus. “You’re horribly bristly!” she laughed; and then, before he could move, she ran through the door.
I rose from my seat, taking my hat and stick in my hand. I felt, as you may suppose, that I had been there long enough. When I moved Rhadamanthus looked up, and with an attempt at unconsciousness observed:
“We will proceed with your case now, if you please, Mr. Carter.”