"That, Mr. Brown," said Dolly, in a most becoming frown, "must on no account go down."
"When you have finished intimidating the Press, perhaps you will finish the extract."
"'His cynicism,'" she read, "'is too strained to commend him to ordinary mortals——'"
"No one would ever accuse you of being in that category."
"'——but his wit is undeniable, and his impudence delicious.' Well, Mr. Carter?"
"I should like the extract concluded." I knew the next sentence commenced—"As for Dolly, Lady Mickleham, she outdoes all the revolted daughters of feminine fiction."
Then an annoying thing happened. Archie's voice was heard, saying, "Dolly, haven't you finished that Dialogue yet? We ought to dress for dinner. It'll take us an hour to drive there."
So it had been all arranged, and Archie knew for what I had been summoned.
Yet there are compensations. Dolly sent the Dialogue to the only paper which I happen to edit. I regretfully declined it. But the fact that she sent it may possibly explain why I have found it so easy to give this account of what happened on that afternoon when I sent the two telegrams.