only kindness, but Dolly suddenly turned her eyes away from me and fixed them on the fire; she took the fan up again and twirled it in her hand; a queer little smile bent her lips.
'I hope the poor man won't die,' said Dolly in a low voice.
'If he had died last night!' I cried longingly. Then, with a regretful shrug of my shoulders, I added, 'Let him live now to the crack of doom!'
Somehow this restored my good humour. I rose and stood with my back to the fire, stretching myself and sighing luxuriously. Dolly leant back in her chair and laughed at me.
'Do you expect to be forgiven?' she asked.
'No, no,' said I; 'I had too good an excuse.'
'I wish I'd been there—at the reception, I mean.'
'I'm extremely glad you weren't, Lady Mickleham. As it was, I forgot all my troubles.'
Dolly is not resentful; she did not mind the implied description. She leant back, smiling still. I sighed again, smiled at Dolly, and took my hat. Then I turned to the mirror over the mantelpiece, arranged my necktie, and gave my hair a touch.
'No one,' I observed, 'can afford to neglect the niceties of the toilet. Those dainty little curls on the forehead'
'You've had none there for ten years,' cried Lady Mickleham.
'I did not mean my forehead,' said I.
