“Why don’t you sing da de da de da, Pelleas?” I inquired, having previously noticed that all the world is divided into those who sing tol, or da, or la, or na. “I always say ‘da.’”
“I prefer ‘tol,’” said Pelleas shortly.
Sometime I intend classifying people according to that one peculiarity, to see what so pronounced a characteristic can possibly augur.
“Ah, well,” said I, to restore his good humour, “what a beau you were at that ball, Pelleas.”
“Nonsense!” he disclaimed, trying to conceal his pleasure.
“And how few of us have kept together since,” I went on; “there are Polly Cleatam and Sally Chartres and Horace and Wilfred, all living near us; and there’s Miss Lillieblade, too.”
“That is so,” Pelleas said, “and I suppose they will all remember that very night—our night.”
“Of course,” said I confidently.
Pelleas meditated, one hand over his mouth, his elbow on his knee.
“I wonder,” he said; “I was thinking—I wouldn’t be surprised if—well, why couldn’t we—”