“Ah, I don’t remember her,” cried I, alarmed lest I might have said anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.
“Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called ‘my dear.’”
“I assure you,” I said, “it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant; but I have no recollection—O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress.”
“You remember her now?”
“Well,” said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, “I can’t say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and whom the Sergeant called ‘my dear,’ but further than that I should not like to pledge myself. Yes—yes—to be sure,” and here I went on talking, as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.
“She was pretty, wasn’t she?” said my wife with an arch look.
I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,
“Really I hardly looked at her; but I should say not.” I make a point of never saying any one is pretty.
“Joe thought her so.”
“Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself.”