stick and that he hadn't the smallest
intention of suggesting anything of the kind. He must simply let it ride.
And the thought of being engaged to a girl who talked openly about
fairies being born because stars blew their noses, or whatever it was,
frankly appalled me.

She was carrying on with her remarks, and as I listened I clenched my
fists till I shouldn't wonder if the knuckles didn't stand out white
under the strain. It seemed as if she would never get to the nub.

"Yes, all through those days at Cannes I could see what you were trying
to say. A girl always knows. And then you followed me down here, and
there was that same dumb, yearning look in your eyes when we met this
evening. And then you were so insistent that I should come out and walk
with you in the twilight. And now you stammer out those halting words.
No, this does not come as a surprise. But I am sorry----"

The word was like one of Jeeves's pick-me-ups. Just as if a glassful of
meat sauce, red pepper, and the yolk of an egg--though, as I say, I am
convinced that these are not the sole ingredients--had been shot into me,
I expanded like some lovely flower blossoming in the sunshine. It was all
right, after all. My guardian angel had not been asleep at the switch.

"--but I am afraid it is impossible."

She paused.

"Impossible," she repeated.

I had been so busy feeling saved from the scaffold that I didn't get on
to it for a moment that an early reply was desired.

"Oh, right ho," I said hastily.

"I'm sorry."

"Quite all right."

"Sorrier than I can say."

"Don't give it another thought."

"We can still be friends."

"Oh, rather."

"Then shall we just say no more about it; keep what has happened as a
tender little secret between ourselves?"

"Absolutely."

"We will. Like something lovely and fragrant laid away in lavender."

"In lavender--right."

There was a longish pause. She was gazing at me in a divinely pitying
sort of way, much as if I had been a snail she had happened accidentally
to bring her short French vamp down on, and I longed to tell her that it
was all right, and that Bertram, so far from being the victim of despair,
had never felt fizzier in his life. But, of course, one can't do that
sort of thing. I simply said nothing, and stood there looking brave.

"I wish I could," she murmured.

"Could?" I said, for my attensh had been wandering.

"Feel towards you as you would like me to feel."

"Oh, ah."

"