"Phyllis," said I, in a whisper, "have you ever met that remarkable
affinity of yours?" I regretted the words the moment they had crossed
my lips.
"Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night," distrustfully.
"There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown
cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"
I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am
sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."
"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said,
trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at
liberty?"
"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with
him."
"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."
We passed out of the file room.
"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.
I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the
curb.
"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.
It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said:
"But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end
nicely, but doesn't; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and
the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who
is Fate) in particular."
I knew that she was puzzled. She wasn't quite sure that I was not
referring to the old affair.
"If the story is one I never heard before," suspiciously, "I should
like to hear it."
"And does it not occur to you," throwing back the robes so that she
might step into the victoria, "that fate has a special grudge against
me? Once was not enough, but it must be twice."
"And she does not love you? Are you quite sure? You poor fellow!" She
squeezed my hand kindly. "Shall I be candid with you?" with the
faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.
"As in the old days," said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near
the others were. A groom is never to be considered. "Yes, as in the
old days."
"Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an
experiment."
Then I knew that she did not understand.
"You must not think I am jesting," said I, seriously. "The story is of
the bitter-sweet kind. The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine."