'No.'
Dolly looked at me, then she asked in an insinuating tone,—
'When did you forget it, Mr. Carter?'
'The day you were buried,' I rejoined.
'I see. Well, you said then what you couldn't possibly have meant
''I daresay. I often did.'
'That they were
''That what were?'
'Why, the—the—what we're talking about.'
'What we were
? Oh, to be sure, the—the blemishes?''Yes, the blemishes. You said they were the most
''Oh, well, it was a façon de parler.'
'I was afraid you weren't a bit sincere,' said Dolly humbly.
'Well, judge me by yourself,' said I with a candid air.
'But I said nothing!' cried Dolly.
'It was incomparably the most artistic thing to do,' said I.
'I'm sometimes afraid you don't do me justice, Mr. Carter,' remarked Dolly with some pathos.
I did not care to enter upon that discussion, and a pause followed. Then Dolly, in a timid manner, asked me,—
'Do you remember the dreadful thing that happened the same evening?'
'That chances to remain in my memory,' I admitted.