Part 9

“Yes, and then it’s generally with somebody else,” said I.

“Oh, if you count that!” said she, hitting Ready rather viciously. We bounded forward, and I heard the little groom bumping on the back seat. I am always glad not to be a groom--it’s a cup-and-ball sort of life, which must be very wearying.

“Were you ever in love?” she asked, just avoiding a brougham which contained the Duchess of Dexminster. (If, by the way, I have to run into anyone, I like it to be a Duchess; you get a much handsomer paragraph.)

“Yes,” said I.

“Often?”

“Oh, not too often, and I always take great care, you know.”

“What of?”

“That it shall be quite out of the question, you know. It’s not at all difficult. I only have to avoid persons of moderate means.”

“But aren’t you a person of--?”

“Exactly. That’s why. So I choose either a pauper--when it’s impossible--or an heiress--when it’s preposterous. See?”

“But don’t you ever want to get--?” began Miss Phaeton.

“Let’s talk about something else,” said I.

“I believe you’re humbuggin’ me,” said Miss Phaeton.

“I am offering a veiled apology,” said I.

“Stuff!” said she. “You know you told Dolly Foster that I should make an excellent wife for a trainer.”

Oh, these women! A man had better talk to a phonograph.

“Or anybody else,” said I politely.

Miss Phaeton whipped up her horses.

“Look out! There’s the mounted policeman,” I cried.

“No, he isn’t. Are you afraid?” she retorted.

“I’m not fit to die,” I pleaded.

“I don’t care a pin for your opinion, you know,” she continued (I had never supposed that she did); “but what did you mean by it?”

“I never said it.”

“Oh!”

“All right--I never did.”

“Then Dolly invented it?”

“Of course,” said I steadily.

“On your honor?”