'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.
Miss Phyllis scanned me from top to toe.
'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 candour. 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.'
