The young man upon her right proved an
able second. The girl on his other side, by the time the concert was
half over, was holding her head high, or bending it to study a programme
which I am sure she did not see, while her companion played Dahlia's old
game with a trained hand.
"Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" breathed the Philosopher in my ear,
during an intermission.
"I'm afraid not," I assented dubiously. "But, of course, she may make a
devoted wife, nevertheless. That sort of thing doesn't mean anything to
her, you know. She merely does it as a matter of habit."
"It can't be precisely an endearing habit to a husband," protested the
Philosopher. "If she would address a remark now and then to the poor man
at her left one might excuse her. And if she could carry on a
conversation with the other one in an ordinarily well-bred, friendly
way--and confine it to the intervals between numbers--one might be able
to forget her, which would be a relief. But all those silly tricks of
hers--those smiles, those archings of the neck--those lengthy looks up
into the eyes of that fool----"
"Don't look at them," I advised.
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