Part 38

“No; because it isn’t pleasant. By the way, you are jealous of Mrs. Hilary?”

Dolly said nothing at all. She took off her hat, roughened her hair a little, and assumed an effective pose. Still, it is a fact (for what it is worth) that she doesn’t care much about Mrs. Hilary.

“The discovery,” I continued, “is that I’m growing middle-aged.”

“You are middle-aged,” said Dolly, spearing her hat with its long pin.

I was, very naturally, nettled at this.

“So will you be soon,” I retorted.

“Not soon,” said Dolly.

“Some day,” I insisted.

After a pause of about half a minute, Dolly said, “I suppose so.”

“You will become,” I pursued, idly drawing patterns with my finger on the sundial, “wrinkled, rough, fat--and, perhaps, good.”

“You’re very disagreeable today,” said Dolly.

She rose and stood by me.

“What do the mottoes mean?” she asked.

There were two; I will not say they contradicted one another, but they looked at life from different points of view.

“Pereunt et imputantur,” I read.

“Well, what’s that, Mr. Carter?”

“A trite, but offensive, assertion,” said I, lighting a cigarette.

“But what does it mean?” she asked, a pucker on her forehead.

“What does it matter?” said I. “Let’s try the other.”

“The other is longer.”

“And better. Horas non numero nisi serenas.”

“And what’s that?”

I translated literally. Dolly clapped her hands, and her face gleamed with smiles.

“I like that one,” she cried.

“Stop!” said I imperatively. “You’ll set it moving!”

“It’s very sensible,” said she.

“More freely rendered, it means, I live only when you--”

“By Jove!” remarked Archie, coming up behind us, pipe in mouth, “there was a lot of rain last night. I’ve just measured it in the gauge.”