’That’s a horse of another colour altogether.
A pretty woman with such a fine figure as hers has
got a right to be anything she pleases. I see
you are a great favourite.’
’No, I’m not;—not especially.
I do like her. She wants to make up a match
between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van
is to have gold by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel,
and a hatful of back shares, and a whole mine in Cornwall,
for her fortune.’
‘And is very handsome into the bargain.’
‘Yes; she’s handsome.’
‘So is her mother,’ said Johnny.
’If you take the daughter, I’ll take
the mother, and see if I can’t do you out of
a mine or two. Good-night, old fellow. I’m
only joking about old Dobbs. I’ll go and
dine there again tomorrow, if you like it.’
MISS MADELINE DEMOLINES
‘I don’t think you care two straws about
her,’ Conway Dalrymple said to his friend John
Eames, two days after the dinner-party at Mrs Dobbs
Broughton’s. The painter was at work in
his studio, and the private secretary from the Income-Tax
Office, who was no doubt engaged on some special mission
to the West End on the part of Sir Raffle Buffle, was
sitting in a lounging-chair and smoking a cigar.
’Because I don’t go about with my stockings
cross-gartered, and do that kind of business?’
‘Well, yes; because you don’t do that
kind of business, more or less.’
’It isn’t in my line, my dear fellow.
I know what you mean, very well. I daresay,
artistically speaking—’
‘Don’t be an ass, Johnny.’
’Well then, poetically, or romantically, if
you like that better—I daresay that poetically
or romantically I am deficient. I eat my dinner
very well, and I don’t suppose I ought to do
that; and, if you’ll believe me, I find myself
laughing sometimes.’
‘I never knew a man who laughed so much.
You’re always laughing.’
‘And that, you think, is a bad sign?’
’I don’t believe you really care about
her. I think you are aware that you have got
a love-affair on hand, and that you hang on to it rather
persistently, having in some way come to a resolution
that you would be persistent. But there isn’t
much heart in it. I daresay there was once.’
‘And that is your opinion?’
’You are just like some of those men who for
years past have been going to write a book on some
new subject. The intention has been sincere at
first, and it never altogether dies away. But
the would-be author, though he still talks of his
work, knows that it will never be executed, and is
very patient under his disappointment. All enthusiasm
about the thing is gone, but he is still known as
the man who is going to do it some day. You are
the man who means to marry Miss Dale in five, ten,
or twenty years’ time.’
