'Read it out,' said Dolly.
So I read it. The silly fellow had written:
Life is Love, the poets tell us
In the little books they sell us;
But pray, ma'am—what's of Life the use,
If Life be Love? For Love's the Deuce.
Dolly began to laugh gently, digging the pin again into her hat.
'I wonder,' said she, 'whether they used to come and sit by this old dial just as we did this morning!'
'I shouldn't be at all surprised,' said I. 'And another point occurs to me, Lady Mickleham.'
'Oh, does it? What's that, Mr. Carter?'
'Do you think that anybody measured the rain-gauge?'
Dolly looked at me very gravely.
'I'm so sorry when you do that,' said she pathetically.
I smiled.
'I really am,' said Dolly. 'But you don't mean it, do you?'
'Certainly not,' said I.
Dolly smiled.
'No more than he did!' said I, pointing to the sun-dial.
And then we both smiled.
'Will this hour count, Mr. Carter?' asked Dolly, as she turned away.
'That would be rather strict,' said I.
