“Of course I haven’t,” he said; “though I have forgotten your name, but I remember that Portsmouth dance as well as if it were yesterday; at least one incident in it—the only one that was worth remembering. I’ve often hoped that I might meet you again, and now, at last, it has happened.”
“It’s nice of you to remember,” she rejoined. “I’ve often and often thought of that evening and all the wonderful things that we talked about. You were a nice boy then; I wonder what you are like now. What a long time ago it is!”
“Yes,” Augustus agreed gravely, “it is a long time. I know it myself; but when I look at you, it seems as if it could only have been last season.”
“Oh, fie!” she exclaimed. “You are not simple as you used to be. You didn’t flatter then; but perhaps there wasn’t the need.” She spoke with gentle reproach, but her pretty face flushed with pleasure nevertheless, and there was a certain wistfulness in the tone of her concluding sentence.
“I wasn’t flattering,” Augustus replied, quite sincerely; “I knew you directly you entered the room and marvelled that Time had been so gentle with you. He hasn’t been as kind to me.”
“No. You have gotten a few grey hairs, I see, but after all, what are grey hairs to a man? Just the badges of rank, like the crown on your collar or the lace on your cuffs, to mark the steps of your promotion—for I guess you’ll be a colonel by now.”
“No,” Augustus answered quickly, with a faint flush, “I left the army some years ago.”
“My! what a pity!” exclaimed Mrs. Chater. “You must tell me all about it—but not now. My partner will be looking for me. We will sit out a dance and have a real gossip. But I’ve forgotten your name—never could recall it, in fact, though that didn’t prevent me from remembering you; but, as our dear W. S. remarks, ‘What’s in a name?’”
“Ah, indeed,” said Mr. Harrington-Baillie; and apropos of that sentiment, he added: “Mine is Rowland—Captain Rowland. You may remember it now.”
Mrs. Chater did not, however, and said so. “Will number six do?” she asked, opening her programme; and, when Augustus had assented, she entered his provisional name, remarking complacently: “We’ll sit out and have a right-down good talk, and you shall tell me all about yourself and if you still think the same about free-will and personal responsibility. You had very lofty ideals, I remember, in those days, and I hope you have still. But one’s ideals get rubbed down rather faint in the friction of life. Don’t you think so?”