to him, somehow or other. One never knows how one does those things, do they?”
“I couldn’t speak from experience,” said I.
“Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I’d just been reading Maeterlinck—and he really is big.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Oh—He, of course. My Golaud. I can’t help admiring men who are a bit avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can’t dance.”
“Perhaps fortunate,” said I.
“I can see you hate him. Pity I didn’t think to ask him if he danced—before——”
“Would it have influenced you very much?”
“Well—of course—one can be free to dance all the more with the really nice men whom one never marries.”
“Why not?”
“Oh—you can only marry one——”
“Of course.”
“There he is—he’s coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender mercies of the world at large. I thought you’d forgotten me, Dear.”
“I thought the same,” replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a childish bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he meant to say.
We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in her cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She was still brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her good-bye, was almost beautiful in his grace and his low musical tone. I nearly loved him myself. She was very fond towards him. As we came to the
