“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“Because, my dear Maisie,” said I, “you are good to look upon.  You are also dropping a hairpin.”

She hastily secured the dangling thing.  “I did my hair anyhow to-day,” she explained.

Again I thought of Dale’s tie and socks.  The signs of a lover’s “careless desolation,” described by Rosalind so minutely, can still be detected in modern youth of both sexes.  I did not pursue the question, but alluded to autumn gaieties.  She spoke of them without enthusiasm.  Miss Somebody’s wedding was very dull, and Mrs. Somebody Else’s dance manned with vile and vacuous dancers.  At the Opera the greatest of German sopranos sang false.  All human institutions had taken a crooked turn, and her cat could not be persuaded to pay the commonest attention to its kittens.  Then she asked me nonchalantly: 

“Have you seen anything of Dale lately?”

“He was working with me this morning.  I’ve been away, you know.”

“I forgot.”

“When did you last see him?” I asked.

“Oh, ages ago!  He has not been near us for weeks.  We used to be such friends.  I don’t think it’s very polite of him, do you?”

“I’ll order him to call forthwith,” said I.

“Oh, please don’t!  If he won’t come of his own accord—­I don’t want to see him particularly.”

She tossed her shapely head and looked at me bravely.

“You are quite right,” said I.  “Dale’s a selfish, ill-mannered young cub.”

“He isn’t!” she flashed.  “How dare you say such things about him!”

I smiled and took both her hands—­one of them held a piece of brown bread-and-butter.

“My dear,” said I, “model yourself on Little Bo-Peep.  I don’t know who gave her the famous bit of advice, but I think it was I myself in a pastoral incarnation.  I had a woolly cloak and a crook, and she was like a Dresden china figure—­the image of you.”

Her eyes swam, but she laughed and said I was good to her.  I said: 

“The man who wouldn’t be good to you is an unhung villain.”

Then her mother joined us, and our little confidential talk came to an end.  It was enough, however, to convince me that my poor little Ariadne was shedding many desperate tears in secret over her desertion.

On my way home I looked in on my doctor.  His name is Hunnington.  He grasped me by the hand and eagerly inquired whether my pain was worse.  I said it was not.  He professed delight, but looked disappointed.  I ought to have replied in the affirmative.  It is so easy to make others happy.

I dined, read a novel, and went to sleep in the cheerful frame of mind induced by the consciousness of having made some little progress on the path of eumoiriety.

The next morning Dale made his customary appearance.  He wore a morning coat, a dark tie, and patent-leather boots.

“Well,” said I, “have you dressed more carefully today?”