'We shall be very glad, I am sure,' said Mrs. Barnes politely, 'to listen to any stories you may like to tell us.'
'Ah, but you must tell some too—we must play fair.'
'I'd love to,' said Dolly again, her dimple flickering.
'Surely we—in any case Dolly and I—are too old to play at anything,' said Mrs. Barnes with dignity.
'Not really. You'll like it once you've begun. And anyhow I can't play by myself, can I,' I said, still trying to be gay and simple. 'You wouldn't want me to be lonely, would you.'
But I was faltering. Mrs. Barnes's eye was on me. Impossible to go on being gay and simple beneath that eye.
I faltered more and more. 'Sometimes I think,' I said, almost timidly, 'that we're wasting time.'
'Oh no, do you really?' exclaimed Mrs. Barnes anxiously. 'Do you not consider Merivale—' (here if I had been a man I would have said damn Merivale and felt better)—'very instructive? Surely to read a good history can never be wasting time? And he is not heavy. Surely you do not find him heavy? His information is always imparted picturesquely, remarkably so. And though one may be too old for games one is fortunately never too old for instruction.'
'I don't feel too old for games,' said Dolly.
'Feeling has nothing to do with reality,' said Mrs. Barnes sternly, turning on her.