THE BETTER SORT
"Thank you!"—and Mamie was stranger than ever.
"Oh, he's good-looking. He's handsome, my dear. Oddly—but distinctly!" Her ladyship was for treating it much as a joke.
But Mamie, all sombre, would have none of this. She boldly gave him up. "I think he's awful."
"He is indeed—delightfully. And where do you get your ways of saying things? It isn't anything—and the things aren't anything. But it's so droll."
"Don't let yourself, all the same," Mamie consistently pursued, "be carried away by it. The thing can't be done—simply."
Lady Wantridge wondered. "'Done simply'?"
"Done at all."
"But what can't be?"
"Why, what you might think—from his pleasantness. What he spoke of your doing for him."
Lady Wantridge recalled. "Forgiving him?"
"He asked you if you couldn't. But you can't. It's too dreadful for me, as so near a relation, to have, loyally—loyally to you—to say it. But he's impossible."
It was so portentously produced that her ladyship had somehow to meet it. "What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know."
"Then what's the matter with you?" Lady Wantridge inquired.
"It's because I won't know," Mamie—not without dignity—explained.
"Then I won't either!"
"Precisely. Don't. It's something," Mamie pursued, with some inconsequence, "that—somewhere or other, at some time or other—he appears to have done; something that has made a difference in his life."
"'Something'?" Lady Wantridge echoed again. "What kind of thing?"
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