"Shouldn't--shouldn't you like to, Mr. Carter?""Heaven forbid!" said I.
Suddenly Mrs. Hilary pushed back her chair, and turned round to us.
"Well, I declare," said she, "I must be growing stupid. Here have I been writing to the Agency, when I know of the very thing myself! The Polwheedles' governess is just leaving them; she's been there over fifteen years. Lady Polwheedle told me she was a treasure. I wonder if she'd go!""Is she what mamma wants?"
"My dear, you'll be most lucky to get her. I'll write at once and ask her to come to lunch tomorrow. I met her there. She's an admirable person."Mrs. Hilary wheeled round again. I shook my head at Miss Phyllis.
"Poor children!" said I. "Manage a bit of fun for them sometimes."Miss Phyllis assumed a staid and virtuous air.
"They must be properly brought up, Mr. Carter," said she.
"Is there a House Opposite?" I asked; and Miss Phyllis blushed.
Mrs. Hilary advanced, holding out a letter.
"You may as well post this for me," said she. "Oh, and would you like to come to lunch tomorrow?""To meet the Paragon?"
"No. She'll be there, of course; but you see it's Saturday, and Hilary will be here; and I thought you might take him off somewhere and leave Phyllis and me to have a quiet talk with her.""That won't amuse her much," I ventured to remark.
"She's not coming to be amused," said Mrs. Hilary severely.
"All right; I'll come," said I, taking my hat.
"Here's the note for Miss Bannerman," said Mrs. Hilary.
That sort of thing never surprises me. I looked at the letter and read "Miss M. E. Bannerman." "M. E." stood for "Maud Elizabeth." I put my hat back on the table.
"What sort of a looking person is this Miss Bannerman?" I asked.
"Oh, a spare, upright woman--hair a little gray, and--I don't know how to describe it--her face looks a little weather-beaten.
She wears glasses."
"Thank you," said I. "And what sort of a looking person am I?"Mrs. Hilary looked scornful. Miss Phyllis opened her eyes.
"How old do I look, Miss Phyllis?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said uncomfortably.
"Guess," said I sternly.
"F-forty-three--oh, or forty-two?" she asked, with a timid upward glance.
"When you've done your nonsense--" began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm.
"Should you call me fat?" I asked.
"Oh, no; not fat," said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.
"I am undoubtedly bald," I observed.
"You're certainly bald," said Mrs. Hilary, with regretful candor.
I took my hat and remarked: "A man has a right to think of himself, but I am not thinking mainly of myself. I shall not come to lunch.""You said you would," cried Mrs. Hilary indignantly.
I poised the letter in my hand, reading again "Miss M(aud)E(lizabeth) Bannerman." Miss Phyllis looked at me curiously, Mrs. Hilary impatiently.
"Who knows," said I, "that I may not be a Romance--a Vanished Dream--a Green Memory--an Oasis? A person who has the fortune to be an Oasis, Miss Phyllis, should be very careful. I will not come to lunch.""Do you mean that you used to know Miss Bannerman?" asked Mrs.
Hilary in her pleasant prosaic way.
It was a sin seventeen years old; it would hardly count against the blameless Miss Bannerman now. "You may tell her when I'm gone," said I to Miss Phyllis.
Miss Phyllis whispered in Mrs. Hilary's ear.
"Another?" cried Mrs. Hilary, aghast.
"It was the very first," said I, defending myself.
Mrs. Hilary began to laugh. I smoothed my hat.
"Tell her," said I, "that I remembered her very well.""I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Hilary.
"And tell her," I continued, "that I am still handsome.""I shan't say a word about you," said Mrs. Hilary.
"Ah, well, that will be better still," said I.
"She'll have forgotten your very name," remarked Mrs. Hilary.
I opened the door, but a thought struck me. I turned round and observed:
"I dare say her hair's just as soft as ever. Still--I'll lunch some other day."
