Anybody, and that charming women thought of me,
and were delighted to meet me, was a brain-disturbing thought.
"And it was really you who wrote that clever book?" she continued,
"and all those brilliant things, in the magazines and journals.
Oh, it must be delightful to be clever."
She gave breath to a little sigh of vain regret that went to my
heart. To console her I commenced a laboured compliment, but she
stopped me with her fan. On after reflection I was glad she had--
it would have been one of those things better expressed otherwise.
"I know what you are going to say," she laughed, "but don't.
Besides, from you I should not know quite how to take it. You can
be so satirical."
I tried to look as though I could be, but in her case would not.
She let her ungloved hand rest for an instant upon mine. Had she
left it there for two, I should have gone down on my knees before
her, or have stood on my head at her feet--have made a fool of
myself in some way or another before the whole room full. She
timed it to a nicety.
"I don't want YOU to pay me compliments," she said, "I want us to
be friends.
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