Part 52

“On a bench. You remember the bench?”

“No, I don’t,” said I, with a kind but firm smile.

“Not the bench?”

“No.”

Dolly looked at me, then she asked in an insinuating tone--

“When did you forget it, Mr. Carter?”

“The day you were buried,” I rejoined.

“I see. Well, you said then what you couldn’t possibly have meant.”

“I dare say. I often did.”

“That they were--”

“That what were?”

“Why, the--the--what we’re talking about.”

“What we were--? Oh, to be sure, the--the blemishes?”

“Yes, the blemishes. You said they were the most--”

“Oh, well, it was a facon de parler.”

“I was afraid you weren’t a bit sincere,” said Dolly humbly.

“Well, judge by yourself,” said I with a candid air.

“But I said nothing!” cried Dolly.

“It was incomparably the most artistic thing to do,” said I.

“I’m sometimes afraid you don’t do me justice, Mr. Carter,” remarked Dolly with some pathos.

I did not care to enter upon that discussion, and a pause followed. Then Dolly, in a timid manner, asked me--

“Do you remember the dreadful thing that happened the same evening?”

“That chances to remain in my memory,” I admitted.

“I’ve always thought it kind of you never to speak of it,” said she.

“It is best forgotten,” said I, smiling.

“We should have said the same about anybody,” protested Dolly.

“Certainly. We were only trying to be smart,” said I.

“And it was horribly unjust.”