"You mustn't say what isn't true, but you needn't say everything
that is--that might be--true," explained Dolly.

This, again, seemed satisfactory. I began to write, Dolly
sitting opposite me with her elbows on the table, and watching
me.

After ten minutes' steady work, which included several pauses for
reflection, I threw down the pen, leant back in my chair, and lit
a cigarette.

"Now read it," said Dolly, her chin in her hands and her eyes
fixed on me.

"It is, on the whole," I observed, "complimentary."

"No, really," said Dolly. "Yet you promised to be sincere."

"You would not have had me disagreeable?" I asked.

"That's a different thing," said Dolly. "Read it, please."

"Lady Mickleham," I read, "is usually accounted a person of
considerable attractions. She is widely popular, and more than
one woman has been known to like her."

"I don't quite understand that," interrupted Dolly.

"It is surely simple," said I; and I read on without delay. "She
is kind even to her husband, and takes the utmost pains to