“Yes, say it.”
“No; it will make you think that I am anxious on my own account about appearances before people.”
“You poor child, I shall never think you are anxious on your own account about anything. What were you going to say?”
“Oh, nothing! It was only—are you invited to the Phillipses’ fancy ball?”
“Yes,” said Colville, silently making what he could of the diversion, “I believe so.”
“And are you going—did you mean to go?” she asked timidly.
“Good heavens, no! What in the world should I do at another fancy ball? I walked about with the airy grace of a bull in a china shop at the last one.”
Imogene did not smile. She faintly sighed. “Well, then, I won’t go either.”
“Did you intend to go?”
“Oh no!”
“Why, of course you did, and it’s very right you should. Did you want me to go?”
“It would bore you.”
“Not if you’re there.” She gave his hand a grateful pressure. “Come, I’ll go, of course, Imogene. A fancy ball to please you is a very different thing from a fancy ball in the abstract.”
“Oh, what nice things you say! Do you know, I always admired your compliments? I think they’re the most charming compliments in the world.”
“I don’t think they’re half so pretty as yours; but they’re more sincere.”
“No, honestly. They flatter, and at the same time they make fun of the flattery a little; they make a person feel that you like them, even while you laugh at them.”
“They appear to be rather an intricate kind of compliment—sort of salsa agradolce affair—tutti frutti style—species of moral mayonnaise.”
“No—be quiet! You know what I mean. What were we talking about? Oh! I was going to say that the most fascinating thing about you always was that ironical way of yours.”
“Have I an ironical way? You were going to tell me something more about the fancy ball.”
“I don’t care for it. I would rather talk about you.”
“And I prefer the ball. It’s a fresher topic—to me.”
“Very well, then. But this I will say. No matter how happy you should be, I should always want you to keep that tone of persiflage. You’ve no idea how perfectly intoxicating it is.”
“Oh yes, I have. It seems to have turned the loveliest and wisest head in the world.”
“Oh, do you really think so? I would give anything if you did.”
“What?”
“Think I was pretty,” she pleaded, with full eyes. “Do you?”
“No, but I think you are wise. Fifty percent, of truth—it’s a large average in compliments. What are you going to wear?”
“Wear? Oh! At the ball! Something Egyptian, I suppose. It’s to be an Egyptian ball. Didn’t you understand that?”
“Oh yes. But I supposed you could go in any sort of dress.”
“You can’t. You must go in some Egyptian character.”
“How would Moses do? In the bulrushes, you know. You could be Pharaoh’s daughter, and recognise me by my three hats. And toward the end of the evening, when I became very much bored, I could go round killing Egyptians.”
“No, no. Be serious. Though I like you to joke, too. I shall always want you to joke. Shall you, always?”
“There may be emergencies when I shall fail—like family prayers, and grace before meat, and dangerous sickness.”
“Why, of course. But I mean when we’re together, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t?”
“Oh, at such times I shall certainly joke.”
“And before people, too! I won’t have them saying that it’s sobered you—that you used to be very gay, and now you’re cross, and never say anything.”
“I will try to keep it up sufficiently to meet the public demand.”
“And I shall want you to joke me, too. You must satirise me. It does more to show me my faults than anything else, and it will show other people how perfectly submissive I am, and how I think everything you do is just right.”
“If I were to beat you a little in company, don’t you think it would serve the same purpose?”
“No, no; be serious.”
“About joking?”
“No, about me. I know that I’m very intense, and you must try to correct that tendency in me.”
“I will, with pleasure. Which of my tendencies are you going to correct?”
“You have none.”
“Well, then, neither have you. I’m not going to be outdone in civilities.”
“Oh, if people could only hear you talk in this light way, and then know what I know!”
Colville broke out into a laugh at the deep sigh which accompanied these words. As a whole, the thing was grotesque and terrible to him, but after a habit of his, he was finding a strange pleasure in its details.
“No, no,” she pleaded. “Don’t laugh. There are girls that would give their eyes for it.”
“As pretty eyes as yours?”
“Do you think they’re nice?”
“Yes, if they were not so mysterious.”
“Mysterious?”
“Yes, I feel that your eyes can’t really be as honest as they look. That was what puzzled me about them the first night I saw you.”
“No—did it, really?”
“I went home saying to myself that no girl could be so sincere as that Miss Graham seemed.”
“Did you say that?”
“Words to that effect.”
“And what do you think now?”
“Ah, I don’t know. You had better go as the Sphinx.”
Imogene laughed in simple gaiety of heart. “How far we’ve got from the ball!” she said, as if the remote excursion were a triumph. “What shall we really go as?”
“Isis and Osiris.”
“Weren’t they gods of some kind?”
“Little one-horse deities—not very much.”
“It won’t do to go as gods of any kind. They’re always failures. People expect too much of them.”
“Yes,” said Colville. “That’s human nature under all circumstances. But why go to an Egyptian ball at all?”
“Oh, we must go. If we both stayed away it would make talk at once, and my object is to keep people in the dark till the very last moment. Of course it’s unfortunate your having told Mrs. Amsden that you were going away, and then telling her just after you came back with me that you were going to stay. But it
