'He said the same about the pudding-faced girl,' I observed.
There was a pause. Then Dolly asked,—
'How is your nose?'
'The carriage-exercise is doing it good,' said I.
'If,' observed Dolly, 'he is so silly now, what will he be at your age?'
'A wise man,' said I.
'He suggested that I might write to him,' bubbled Dolly.
Now when Dolly bubbles—an operation which includes a sudden turn towards me, a dancing of eyes, a dart of a small hand, a hurried rush of words, checked and confused by a speedier gust of gurgling sound—I am in the habit of ceasing to argue the question. Bubbling is not to be met by arguing. I could only say,—
'He'll have forgotten by the end of the term.'
'He'll remember two days later,' retorted Dolly.
'Stop the carriage,' said I. 'I shall tell Mrs. Hilary all about it.'
'I won't stop the carriage,' said Dolly. 'I'm going to take you home with me.'
'I am at a premium to-day,' I said sardonically.
'One must have something,' said Dolly. 'How is your nose now, Mr. Carter?'
I looked at Dolly. I had better not have done that.
'Would afternoon tea hurt it?' she inquired, anxiously.
