“These,” I continued, turning over two or three, “are small ebullitions that served their end in leaving me in a better temper; and in one at least of them I evaded a state of mind in which I was feeling very sorry for myself. It is a good game, don’t you think?”
“Excellent,” she returned, “from the point of view of your future biographer. I suppose you have one eye on the memoir-writer, Rollo. Is your statue to be equestrian?”
I waived reply magnanimously, and went on.
“Here is one to Mrs. Loring Chatterton; and not unconnected with it, one to yourself.”
“One to me?” she inquired, looking up. “Why to me? What mood did that exemplify?”
“I think, Millicent,” I replied, “that I must have felt rather a regard for you that evening.”
She bowed ironically.
“It is nice to be thought well of,” she replied, “even if the regard does stop at the posting point. It was a wet night, I suppose; or the servants had gone to bed?”
“The fires of the heart, Millicent,” I answered, in pompous periods, at which she only laughed, “are not quenched by rain. Yon gutters that run so musically could no more——”
“'Oh, Captain Shaw!’” she sang softly, “'type of true love kept under——’”