I said something presently about Lady Pilkey's picnic on the morrow,
to which we had both been bidden.

'Shall I call for you?' I asked. 'You will ride, of course.'

'Thanks, but I've cried off--I'm going sketching.' Her eyes plainly
added, 'with Ingersoll Armour,' but she as obviously shrank from the
roughness of pitching him in that unconsidered way before us. For
some reason I refrained from taking the cue. I would not lug him in
either.

'That is a new accomplishment,' was as much as I felt I could say
with dignity, and she responded:

'Yes, isn't it?'

I felt some slight indignation on Lady Pilkey's account. 'Do you
really think you ought to do things like that at the eleventh hour?'
I asked, but Dora smiled at a glance, the hypocrisy out of my face.

'What does anything matter?' she demanded.

I knew perfectly well the standard by which nothing mattered, and
there was no use, of course, in going on pretending that I did not.

'I assured him that you didn't paint,' I said, accusingly.

'Oh, I had to--otherwise what was there to go upon? He would have
been found only to be lost again. You did not contemplate that?'
Miss Harris inquired sweetly.