"'The one the old cow died of,' he answered.
"'But the words aren't bad?'
"'Think so?' he drawled, putting up his eyeglass and surveying the singer, as though the voice came from a marionette.
"I proceeded with some chocolate cakes, too nervous for the moment to meet his eye. He did not observe it, however, but resumed his interest in the departure of the edibles. It seemed absorbing! I wonder if he will write a poem on gourmandes! What fun to illustrate it and surprise him! He does not know that I illustrate—what a horrible discovery! To find in this piece of plastic putty a nineteenth century working woman!
"If he had not been a poet and a parti he might have been very charming! As Lady Sargent's dear friend, of course he shares her opinions about the shelves, and my mind was bent on dispelling that old-worldism, on stamping, 'Not for sale' into my speech somehow. But there was little opportunity, I saw he had mentally pronounced me such a silly little girl.
"'Did I play tennis?'—'Loved it.'
(Truthfully, it has no attractions for me. It was a recreation once, now it is a profession, and one cannot adopt two professions, but I didn't tell him that.)
"'Did I dance?'—'No.'
(I was forced into this admission. Balls I forswear—the shelf is bad enough, but to literally earn a husband by the "sweat of one's face" is humiliating.)
"'No, I never danced,' was my answer. 'I had no superfluous energy to work off.'