She looked at me. She smiled. I may have smiled.
'Yes,' said I.
'Then you needn't write it quite all down,' said Dolly.
'I am obliged,' said I, taking up my pen.
'You mustn't say what isn't true, but you needn't say everything that is—that might be—true,' exclaimed Dolly.
This, again, seemed satisfactory. I began to write, Dolly sitting opposite me with her elbows on the table, and watching me.
After ten minutes' steady work, which included several pauses for reflection, I threw down the pen, leant back in my chair, and lit a cigarette.
'Now read it,' said Dolly, her chin in her hands and her eyes fixed on me.
'It is, on the whole,' I observed, 'complimentary.'
'No, really?' said Dolly. 'Yet you promised to be sincere.'
'You would not have had me disagreeable?' I asked.
'That's a different thing,' said Dolly. 'Read it, please.'
'"Lady Mickleham,"' I read, '"is usually accounted a person of considerable attractions. She is widely popular, and more than one woman has been known to like her."'
'I don't quite understand that,' interrupted Dolly.
'It is surely simple,' said I; and I read on without delay. '"She is kind even to her
