"Did you ever see anything like it, I was stung by a wasp this morning," he said, showing his mouth. "That's why I look like this."
"Then you've been away too long, the wasps don't recognize you."
It made no difference to her whether he had been disfigured by a wasp or not. All right. She stood there twirling a red gold-mounted parasol on her shoulder and nothing else mattered to her. And yet he had carried her ladyship in his arms more than once.
"I don't recognize the wasps," he answered; "they used to be friends of mine."
But she didn't see the deep meaning in his words; she didn't answer. Oh, but it was so deep.
"I don't recognize anything here now. Even the woods have been cut down."
A little twitch passed over her face.
"Then perhaps you can't write poetry here," she answered. "Fancy if you would write me a poem some day. No, what am I talking about! That shows you how little I know about it."
He looked at the ground, stung and silent. She was making a fool of him in the friendliest way, she talked patronizingly and watched him for the effect. Begging her pardon, he hadn't wasted all his time in writing, he had studied more than most....
"Well, we shall meet another time. Good-bye for the present."