He kept on
repeating at intervals that I was glorious. I grew tired at last of the
eulogy, and, adopting his vernacular, declared that I should be jolly
glad to get out of this rubbishy world. He protested. There was never
such a world. It was gorgeous. What was wrong with it, anyway? As I
could not show him the Commination Service, I picked imaginary flaws in
the universe. I complained of its amateurishness of design. But Dale,
who loves fact, was not drawn into a theological disputation.
"Do you know, I had a deuce of a shock when I came into Lola's this
afternoon?" he cried irrelevantly, with a loud laugh. "I thought--it was
a damnable and idiotic thing to come into my head--but I couldn't help
thinking you had cut me out! I wanted to tell you. You must forgive me
for being such an ass. And I want to thank you for being so good to her
while I was away. She has been telling me. You like her, don't you? I
knew you would. No one can help it. Besides being other things, she's is
such a good sort, isn't she?"
I admitted her many excellencies, while he walked about the room.
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