Volume X Part 4 (2/2)
”Well, by some accounts, he's a little literary man in London,” she remarked.
”Oh, come! You never imagined that I was a little literary man in London,” protested he.
”You might be worse,” she retorted. ”However, if the phrase offends you, I'll say a rising young literary man, instead. He writes things, you know.”
”Poor chap, does he? But then, that's a way they have, sizing up literary persons?” His tone was interrogative.
”Doubtless,” she agreed. ”Poems and stories and things. And book reviews, I suspect. And even, perhaps, leading articles in the newspapers.”
”_Toute la lyre enfin?_ What they call a penny-a-liner?”
”I'm sure I don't know what he's paid. I should think he'd get rather more than a penny. He's fairly successful. The things he does aren't bad,” she said.
”I must look 'em up,” said he. ”But meantime, will you tell me how you came to mistake me for him? Has he the Chinese type? Besides, what on earth should a little London literary man be doing at the Countess Wohenhoffen's?”
”He was standing near the door, over there,” she told him, sweetly, ”dying for a little human conversation, till I took pity on him. No, he hasn't exactly the Chinese type, but he's wearing a Chinese costume, and I should suppose he'd feel uncommonly hot in that exasperatingly placid Chinese head. _I'm_ nearly suffocated, and I'm only wearing a _loup_.
For the rest, why _shouldn't_ he be here?”
”If your _loup_ bothers you, pray take it off. Don't mind me,” he urged gallantly.
”You're extremely good,” she responded. ”But if I should take off my _loup_, you'd be sorry. Of course, manlike, you're hoping that I'm young and pretty.”
”Well, and aren't you?”
”I'm a perfect fright. I'm an old maid.”
”Thank you. Manlike, I confess I _was_ hoping you'd be young and pretty.
Now my hope has received the strongest confirmation. I'm sure you are,”
he declared triumphantly.
”Your argument, with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and superficial. Don't pin your faith to it. Why _shouldn't_ Victor Field be here?” she persisted.
”The Countess only receives tremendous swells. It's the most exclusive house in Europe.”
”Are you a tremendous swell?” she wondered.
”Rather!” he a.s.severated. ”Aren't you?”
She laughed a little, and stroked her fan, a big fan, a big fan of fluffy black feathers.
”That's very jolly,” said he.
”What?” said she.
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