“Please. No, Rol, we’ll sit here and be nice all the evening. I’ll bring my writing in--may I?”
I was only half convinced it wasn’t money; she was after something. Carrie’s writing is her one affectation, with which exception she is as sane as would be expected of my sister.
I believe it was a modern comedy which was then occupying the years of her youth, and whose production was to be the crown of her old age. She worked at it intermittently, that is to say, when there were no calls to receive or to be made, when she could find nobody to take her to a theatre or a garden-party, when there were no women to gossip with, or men to fascinate--whenever, in short, she felt dull. But of late she had seemed to recover interest in it--had recast it, she said.
“Bring it in, by all means,” I replied, “but bring a dictionary as well; I’m not absolute in spelling.”
Why the deuce was she so uncommonly polite? She usually announced that she was going to spend the evening with me in much less considerate terms. I shook my head apprehensively.
When dinner was removed Carrie disappeared, and presently re-entered with an armful of comedy and a mouthful of quill pens. She made a clean sweep of my desk and settled herself with many quirks and little graces before the recast masterpiece. I gravely asked her permission to smoke, and she, smiling at the superfluity of the question, bowed a ceremonious assent; then got down to business, and chewed a pink knuckle in the stress of composition.
I put my feet upon a chair, lighted a cigar, and looked alternately at the fire and at Caroline. She made my room appear very comfortable, with her evening frock and pretty airs. She was an excellent housekeeper, and kept my half of our little flat almost as dainty as her own. We got along very cosily, Carrie and I--for a sister, she behaved very well indeed. She could have the sovereign if she wanted it; I only hoped it was no worse.
By and by Carrie looked up meditatively, started on a fresh knuckle, and then turned to me.
“What do men talk about after dinner, Rol, when the women have left?” she asked.
“No, Rollo,” she said, “I don’t mean--I mean, what do they talk about?”
“Oh!” I replied, “what do they _really_ talk about, eh?”