Carrie and I were placidly surveying, from either end of my little dining-table, the creditable wreck we had made of a rather neat little dinner. Carrie never disdains this hour of the animal, at whatever table fortune shall place her; and when she does me the honour to dine with me, she generally pays me the compliment of evident enjoyment. It is a feature I admire in her.

I was making leisurely coffee arrangements with my latest bachelor acquisition, a pretty little silver and spirit affair, that did not necessitate rising from a comfortable seat; while my sister purred in soft content. I moved the shaded lamp aside to see her better—Carrie is a very presentable young woman; I thought her arms decidedly pretty.

“I think, Rol,” she said, as I looked carefully to the coffee, “I think—we will not grace the theatre this evening. It’s such a wet night, and I’m so comfy here.”

I could hear the rain without getting up. It was a wet night; and she did look comfy.

“Very well, my dear sister,” I replied. “As you please. It will save me a sovereign, unless you succeed in coaxing it out of me during the evening, which I have no doubt is your real motive.”

“No, Rol, really I don’t want——”

“Not enough, eh? Haven’t got it, my dear—this is good coffee, Caroline,—I’m really as poor as Hooley. There, that’s right. KÜmmel avec, n’est ce pas, my dear?”

“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.”

“Thank you, Rollo.”

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.

I looked at her curiously and smiled.

“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?”

“Yes. I want to put it in the play.”

“You want to put it in the play? Let me see.” I considered a moment. “Well, after the first grief at the loss of the ladies, their hands go instinctively to their hair, to feel how they have looked. If there is a mirror handy they flock to it. They then sit down, look wistfully at the empty chairs, and fold their hands patiently, to await the earliest moment that they may rejoin their bereft partners.”

“Don’t be absurd, Rol,” answered Carrie. “I want to know. I’ve got a man here, who is to talk after dinner. He’s in love with a girl he’s been sitting next, and I want him to say pretty things about her.”

Happy, happy innocence! dear simple Carrie! Should I be the one to destroy so sweet an illusion? Never!

I was intensely amused, but I replied thoughtfully:

“I should think in the first place it would depend a good deal on the man—and the girl. What are they like?”

“He’s a soldier,” said Carrie, looking timidly down at her manuscript. “That is, he has not seen any active service, but he’s simply thirsting to do some brave deed that shall show her how he loves her.”

“Yes,” I said, much interested. “A carpet knight; how old?”

“He’s about four-and-twenty, I believe; and he’s not a carpet knight. He’s very good, and clever, and noble. He’s supposed to be dining at his married sister’s, and has to entertain the men with brilliant talk.”

If I didn’t know that noble young soldier, I would never look on daylight again!

“Black hair?” I said.

“Yes,” replied Carrie promptly. “That is—I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

I leaned back in my chair to recover from the shock. This, then, was what made her so loving to her brother. This was the “nice evening” we were to have. She had a secret which pricked her conscience. She was going to be nice to me for the time remaining. I might have known she didn’t visit Mrs. Loring Chatterton for nothing. A soldier to run off with my housekeeper! She had recast the play with a vengeance; I was to play the good brother’s part.

I shut my eyes.

“Well, Rol?” said Carrie. She had evidently not noticed my state. She didn’t know I knew.

“Let me think,” I replied, “let me think.”

I was not allowed to think; a tap at the door roused me, and two visitors were announced. In came Loring Chatterton, and the young brother-in-law himself. I had to admit he was a not unprepossessing young warrior.

“How do you do, Miss Butterfield?” came simultaneously from my two guests, while Carrie rose, putting aside her manuscript. I greeted them from my chair.

“I am afraid we interrupt your writing, Miss Butterfield,” said Loring, sitting down.

“Oh no, Mr. Chatterton,” Caroline replied. “As a matter of fact I was rather stuck when you came in.”

“Yes, Loring,” I interposed, “Carrie was rather stuck when you came in. Perhaps we shall be able to help her, eh, Bassishaw?”

“Delighted,” replied Bassishaw; “but I’m afraid, do you know, that I haven’t much of a head on me for that sort of thing, Miss Butterfield.”

“Rollo——” began Carrie.

“Oh, he’ll do, Carrie,” I replied. “Caroline wants to know, Bassishaw, what a young man, good, clever, and—let me see—was he noble, Carrie? Yes, I believe he was noble, and—a brilliant talker”—(I had him there)—“a brilliant talker, would say after dinner about the girl he thought he loved.”

Carrie was helpless. I had not given her away, and she did not dare to protest for fear of doing so herself. She had a secret—I also had a secret. I would keep the case strictly hypothetical.

“Well, Miss Butterfield,” began the hero who was thirsting to do some brave deed, “I’m hanged, do you know, if I know what he’d say. He’d talk a lot of piffle, wouldn’t he—oh, but he’s a brilliant sort of chap. He’d—oh, hang it, Loring, what would he say? I don’t know.”

I chuckled softly. I didn’t want to hear Loring; I wanted to hear the brilliant talker. It was for Carrie’s benefit.

“But if he really loved her,” I said, “and his eloquence came out in a torrent?”

“Oh, I see. Well, I expect he’d say she was a confounded nice girl—or something—pretty and all that, you know—and he’d row any chap who said she wasn’t; don’t you think, eh? But why the deuce should he say anything?”

Bassishaw was coming out of it with more credit than I thought. I laughed, and even Carrie had to laugh too.

“I think,” said Chatterton, “that’s about as much as he could say, unless he were an ass. I can’t imagine his saying much if you were there, Rollo.”

“No,” said Bassishaw. “You are a mischievous sort of Johnny, you know, Butterfield. You’re deuced hard on young chaps; you guy them awfully, you know. I expect you’ve forgotten all that.”

Thus unconsciously, was Bassishaw revenged. I was hard on young chaps. I had forgotten, you know. I was an old fossil, or something. But I had a sister, deuced nice girl, pretty, and all that. You have to keep in with Johnnies like that, you know.

One thing I must know. Did this plain-spoken young man of the sword care for Carrie? This was soon evident from his conciliatory manner toward me. No one ever goes out of the way to consider me unless he wants something. Bassishaw was most attentive.

“By the way, Butterfield,” he said after a while, “are you engaged for Tuesday afternoon? Because if you’re not, do you know, my folks are giving a sort of garden-party, or something. There’ll be lots of people of your sort”—(my sort!)—“coming—clever, and all that, you know; I thought you might care to come. I’ll get them to ask you, if you like. And Miss Butterfield, too; Chatterton here is coming, and he’ll look after you, you know, Butterfield. What do you say?”

I turned to Carrie.

“I think we might go, Rol,” she said. “I like to meet clever people.”

I thought a moment.

“I don’t know, Bassishaw,” I replied—“that I care to meet people of—er—my sort, much. But if Carrie cares to go, I’ll look after her. It may be of use to her—in a literary way. Thank you.”

I wouldn’t have missed that garden-party for a good deal.