“Well?” said I in return.
“It is goodbye?” asked Dolly, drawing down the corners of her mouth.
“It comes to this,” I remarked. “Supposing I forgive you—”
“As if it was my fault?”
“And risk Mrs. Hilary’s wrath—did you speak?”
“No; I laughed, Mr. Carter.”
“What shall I get out of it?”
The sun was shining brightly; it shone on Dolly; she had raised her parasol, but she blinked a little beneath it. She was smiling slightly still, and the dimple stuck to its post—like a sentinel, ready to rouse the rest from their brief repose. Dolly lay back in the victoria, nestling luxuriously against the soft cushions. She turned her eyes for a moment on me.
“Why are you looking at me?” she asked.
“Because,” said I, “there is nothing better to look at.”