THE STORY IN IT
"It was beautiful. But they make me as uneasy, sometimes, your impulses, as if they were calculations; make me wonder what you have in reserve."
"Because when small children are too awfully good they die? Well, I am a small child compared to you—but I'm not dead yet. I cling to life."
He had covered her with his smile, but she continued grave. "I'm not half so much afraid when you're nasty."
"Thank you! What then did you do," he asked, "with my note?"
"You deserve that I should have spread it out on my dressing-table—or left it, better still, in Maud Blessingbourne's room."
He wondered while he laughed. "Oh, but what does she deserve?"
It was her gravity that continued to answer. "Yes—it would probably kill her."
"She believes so in you?"
"She believes so in you. So don't be too nice to her."
He was still looking, in the chimney-glass, at the state of his beard—brushing from it, with his handkerchief, the traces of wind and wet. "If she also then prefers me when I'm nasty, it seems to me I ought to satisfy her. Shall I now, at any rate, see her?"
"She's so like a pea on a pan over the possibility of it that she's pulling herself together in her room."
"Oh then, we must try and keep her together. But why, graceful, tender, pretty too—quite, or almost—as she is, doesn't she remarry?"
Mrs. Dyott appeared—and as if the first time—to look for the reason. "Because she likes too many men."
It kept up his spirits. "And how many may a lady like———?"
"In order not to like any of them too much? Ah,
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