DIALOGUE TO ORDER.

Bush Advocate, Volume XXII, Issue 60, 12 March 1910, Page 7

DIALOGUE TO ORDER.

(By Leslie Thomas.)

"Fancy," I exclaimed fervently, as we shook hands—"fancy meeting you suddenfy, like this, after all this time!" "Funny, isn't it?" she responded lazily. "How have you been getting on?" I shook my head a trifle reproachfully. .She caught my glance, and raised her eyebrows. "You've spoilt the situation," I explained. "Don't you see there's romance in it?" She looked penitent. "Sorry! What ought I to have said ? And is it necessary for you to hold my fingers any more?" "Of course it is," I returned rather disappointedly. "On these occasions one always does—'a second longer than convention decrees.' Surely you must have read this dialogue before? It's the invariable rule."

She smiled, and settled herself in her chair.

"In reply to my fisrfc speech/ 5 1 said, "you should have pointed, and murmured some comment about —■ well, about my rudeness in mentioning the number of years which elapsed since —''

■"Let's start again," she pleaded. "I'll try to do better. 'All this time' was my cue, I fancy. Here's the pout. Now then! You infer, Mr Calverley, that I don't look so young as 1 used?"

"Not bad," I admitted. "Rather clumsily put, but not bad. You'll improve as you go on, perhaps. It has seemed a long while, Dolly, away from you ; and yet " "Is it my turn?" "The pause was intentional. And

yet—you haven't changed, as far as outward appearance goes. In face and figure you're just the same. At least "

''l know! Seven pounds in two months! It's too bad! I've tried everything, really; but " 1 sighed. "Oh, dear! Of course, that's all wrong."

"I'll overlook it," I remarked, warningly, "this once. Have you ever thought, Dolly—no, that comes la>ter on. You've made me forget how far we've got. I should have known you anywhere." She waited.

"That's right. Look down at the point of your slipper," I prompted. "Now say something about me." "You've got stouter, too; and your hair—can't you stop it, somehow? That new stuff "

"No, no!" I gasped. "I look older, and worn, and—and my forehead's lined—something of that sort. If you must mention my hair, it has a tinge of grey." "I apologise, really I do! May I play, partner? I mean, is it my " "Not yet! I wonder if you've ever —ever thought of me? It was cruel of you to stop writing so suddenly."

"Well, I lost your address some,how. I wrote it on a bridge-scorer, you remember: and next time we played, somebody—oh 1 as I doing badly?" "I didn't think —how could I know you wished to hear from me ?—something like that. And don't forget to turn away so that your face is in the shadow." She turned.

"How could 1_ know, Mr Calverley, that vou wished to hear from me?"

"Admirable!" I said. We'll go on. from there. Ah! I thought—l hoped you'd understand. This is whore I get rather bitter, you know. Er—but I daresay you've practically forgotten my existence. After all, what else could I expect? There were always plenty of other men to amuse you, and pay you compliments."

"Thank goodness!" i ignored this. "Not that I'm blaming them, Dolly. Who could help admiring you? Now there's silence for a moment or two. And I'm not the sort of chap a girl Mould ever " 1 glanced down at her gloved hands. "I daresay I have to congratulate you and—and some more fascinating chap who's been lucky enough to—" "I'm afraid I—l don't quite understand," she interrupted. "Bravo! that was quite good. I mean, you—you're engaged?" "N-no." "By Jove! you're doing splendidly now. Then there's still some chance —some hope? Pretend to get up, and I'll stop you." "I think we ought to be going back into the ballroom, Mr Calverley." "Excellent!" She began to rise. I touched her arm. "Don't go, Dolly—not yet. There's the time I've been away I've looked forward to this- moment. Stop here a little while. Go on; sink back again." She sank. I leaned over her chair. "Do 3 T ou remember, Dolly, that evening when—when I was going? You said you were sorry, and you hoped I'd be back soon. You told me there was only one person you—you really liked. Is it different now?" "There's only one person I—l really like." "Dolly! No, I beg your pardon, it's my mistake. I'm going too quickly. I have to imagine it's someone else—some rival. He's a very lucky man, Dolly." "He is; but 1 don't know whether he realises it." "Ah! but that's impossible. If you —you liked anyone, he'd be the happiest man in the world. But perhaps you haven's told him." "I'm afraid I've hinted as much." "And he's been blind. He hasn't guessed! Dolly, if I'd been that man —but, of course, that—that's impossible. Oh, I didn't mean to reproach you. Just about here I'm very gloomy. See ? I didn't mean to reproach you. I've no right to do that. I—l hope you'll be very happy together, Dolly."

"Thanks. I'm sure we shall. H'shl give me a chance. It's vei'y good of you, Mr Calverley." She stood up, and fingered her fan nervously. 1 was just going to compliment her upon this when she spoke again.

"And Ave'll always be—be friends, won't we? That is, if you care to." "I shall be honored, of course. I —l'd better go away again, though, I think. It would be wiser—safer—just for a time, until. Go on; ask me, why?"

"Is there any need for you to go, Mr Calverley?" I nodded approvingly. "Continue, now—Oh, can't you understand ? Must I say any more. Men are so dense."

She repeated the phrases with emphasis. "That gives me my chance, you see. Dolly! you don't mean—you can't—Dolly, I—l love you—have loved you ever since " "Mr Calverley!"

"Well—er—l must finish up the column like that, you throw yourself into my arms, and finish the rest of your sentences—any sentence 'll do—on my coat. Come along." "But I don't want to," she objected. ."Then you've spoilt the whole thing," I said, shaking my head. "Besides," she added over her shoulder, as she moved away, "here's mj T husband coming."