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"I suppose drawing-rooms are the same all the
world over. I do try to talk like a lady--at least, what I imagine they
talk like, for I've never met one."
"You see one every time you look in the glass," said I.
Her olive face flushed. "You mustn't say such things to me if you don't
mean them. I like to think all you say to me is true."
"Why in the world," I cried, "should you not be a lady? You have the
instincts of one. How many of my fair friends in Mayfair and Belgravia
would have made their drawing-rooms unspeakable just for the sake of not
hurting the feelings of Anastasius Papadopoulos?"
She put aside her work and, leaning over the arm of the chair, her chin
in her hands, looked at me gratefully.
"I'm so glad you've said that. Dale can't understand it. He wants me to
clear the trash away."
"Dale," said I, "is young and impetuous. I am a battered old philosopher
with one foot in the grave."
Quick moisture gathered in her eyes. "You hurt me," she said. "You'll
soon get well and strong again.


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