"Do you? How pretty do you think you are now?"
"Not half as pretty as Dora Nicholson. You know exactly how pretty she is."
"I do. And I know exactly how pretty she"ll be in five years" time.
That"s the worst of those thin women with little, delicate, pink faces.
You know the precise minute when a girl like Dora"ll go off. You know the pinkness will begin to run when she"s once past thirty. You can see the crows" feet coming, and you know exactly how far they"ll have got by the time she"s thirty-five. You know that when she"s forty there"ll be two little lines like thumb-nail marks beside her ears, just here, and you know that when she"s forty-five the dear little lobes will begin to shrivel up, and that when she"s fifty the corners of her mouth will collapse."
"And then?"
"Then, if you"re a wise man you don"t know any more."
"Poor little Dora. You _are_ a brute, Wilfrid."
"I"m not a brute. I was going to say that the best of you, dear, is that I don"t know how you"ll look at fifty. I don"t know how you"ll look to-morrow--to-night. You"re never the same for ten minutes together.
When you get one of those abominable headaches you look perhaps as old as you are. You"re twenty-seven, aren"t you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I dare say you"ll look twenty-seven when you are fifty. There"s something awfully nice about that sort of prettiness. It leaves things delightfully vague. I can"t _see_ you fifty."
"Perhaps I never shall be."
"Perhaps not. That"s just it. You leave it open to me to think so. I don"t seriously contemplate your ever being forty. In fact your being thirty is one of those melancholy and disastrous events that need not actually occur. It"s very tactful of you, Kitty."
"All the same, I"m not as pretty as Dora Nicholson."
"Dora Nicholson!"
"You can"t say she isn"t awfully pretty."
"I don"t say it." His voice rose to an excited falsetto. "She _is_ awfully pretty--extravagantly, preposterously pretty. And she"ll have to pay for it."
"Oh--we all have to pay for it."
"Sooner _or_ later."
"Poor Dora----"
"Poor Dora. Perhaps we have been rather brutal to her. She"s good for another five years."
"Only five years? And what will she do then?"
"Oh, she"ll be all right. She"ll rouge a bit, and powder a bit, and dress like anything. You needn"t be unhappy about Dora. I can tell you Dora isn"t going to be unhappy about you. Unhappiness would be extremely unbecoming to her, and she knows it. It isn"t particularly becoming to any woman. You would be less damaged by it than most perhaps."
"You"ve never seen me unhappy."
"I hope to G.o.d I never shall."
"You needn"t be afraid, Wilfrid, you never will."
"I wish," she said presently, "I wish you liked Dora Nicholson."
"I do like her."
"I wish you liked her as much as me."
"That"s very n.o.ble of you, Kitty. But may I ask, why?"
"Because it would make things simpler."
"Simpler? I should have said myself that that was just where complications might occur. Supposing I liked Dolly better than you, what then?"
"Oh, that would make it simpler still."
"It certainly would be simpler than the other situation you suggest."
"It would for both of us."
"But why this sudden yearning for simplicity? And why Dora Nicholson?"
"There isn"t any why. Anybody else would do, provided you liked them better than me. It"s only a question of time, you know. You"re bound to tire of me sooner or later."
"Later, Kitty, later. Barring jealousy. If you"re going in for that, I may as well tell you at once that I shall tire of it very soon."
"You think that"s what"s the matter with me?"
"Well, something"s the matter with you. I suppose it"s that. I should drop it, Kitty. It really isn"t worth while. It only makes you thin, and--and I can"t be bored with it, d"you see?"
"I don"t want--to be bored--with it--either." She spoke very slowly. "If you wanted to leave me for Dora Nicholson, I should be a fool to try and keep you, shouldn"t I?"
"Well--you"re not a fool."
"You"re not a fool either, Wilfrid."
"If I am I take some pains to conceal it."
"If a woman wanted to leave you for another man, would you try and keep her?"
He looked at her attentively. "It depends on the woman, and on some other things besides. For instance, if I were married to her, I might make a considerable effort, not to keep _her_, but--to keep up appearances."
"And if--you were not married to her?"
"There again it would depend on the woman. I might take it that she"d left me already."
"Yes, but if you knew she wasn"t that sort--if you knew she"d always been straight with you?"
"Well, then perhaps I might take the trouble to find out whether there really was another man. Or I might have reason to suppose she was only trying it on. In which case I should say to her "My dear Kitty, you"re a very clever woman and it"s a brilliant idea you"ve got. But it"s been tried before and it won"t work. You can"t draw me that way.""
"But, Wilfrid--if there _was_ another man?"