DOI article:
Dowie, Ménie Muriel: An idyll in millinery
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26393#0042
38 An Idyll in Millinery
Somehow, it disorganised Liphook.
“Do you love me ? Do you love me ?” he asked rapidly, even
roughly, in the only voice he could command, and he shook her a
little.
She put her head on one side and made that same sweet
crinkled-up kind of moue mo quant e, then she spread her palms out
and shook them and laughed and ran away round the table.
“ Est-ce que je sais, moi ? ” she cried in French. Liphook didn’t
speak. Oh, he understood her all right, but he was getting him-
self a little in hand first. A man like Liphook has none of the
art of life ; he can’t do figure-skating among his emotions like
your nervous, artistic-minded, intellectually trained man. After
that one outburst and the puzzlement that succeeded it, he was
silent, until he remarked upon the waiter’s slowness in bringing up
luncheon. But he had one thing quite clear in his thick English
head, through which the blood was still whizzing and singing.
He wanted to kiss her again badly ; he was going to kiss her
again at the first opportunity.
But, of course, when he wasn’t with her his mind varied in its
reflections. For instance, he had come home one night from
dining at Aldershot—a farewell dinner to his Colonel it was—
and he had actually caught himself saying : “ I must get out of
it,” meaning his affair with Melanie. That was pretty early on,
when it had still seemed, particularly after being in the society
of worldly-wise friends who rarely, if ever, did anything foolish,
much less emotional, that he was making an ass of himself, or
was likely to if he didn’t “get out of it.” Now the thing had
assumed a different aspect. He could not give her up ; under no
circumstances could he contemplate giving her up ; well then,
why give her up ? She was only a little thing in a hat shop, she
would do very much better—yes, but, somehow he had a certain
feeling
Somehow, it disorganised Liphook.
“Do you love me ? Do you love me ?” he asked rapidly, even
roughly, in the only voice he could command, and he shook her a
little.
She put her head on one side and made that same sweet
crinkled-up kind of moue mo quant e, then she spread her palms out
and shook them and laughed and ran away round the table.
“ Est-ce que je sais, moi ? ” she cried in French. Liphook didn’t
speak. Oh, he understood her all right, but he was getting him-
self a little in hand first. A man like Liphook has none of the
art of life ; he can’t do figure-skating among his emotions like
your nervous, artistic-minded, intellectually trained man. After
that one outburst and the puzzlement that succeeded it, he was
silent, until he remarked upon the waiter’s slowness in bringing up
luncheon. But he had one thing quite clear in his thick English
head, through which the blood was still whizzing and singing.
He wanted to kiss her again badly ; he was going to kiss her
again at the first opportunity.
But, of course, when he wasn’t with her his mind varied in its
reflections. For instance, he had come home one night from
dining at Aldershot—a farewell dinner to his Colonel it was—
and he had actually caught himself saying : “ I must get out of
it,” meaning his affair with Melanie. That was pretty early on,
when it had still seemed, particularly after being in the society
of worldly-wise friends who rarely, if ever, did anything foolish,
much less emotional, that he was making an ass of himself, or
was likely to if he didn’t “get out of it.” Now the thing had
assumed a different aspect. He could not give her up ; under no
circumstances could he contemplate giving her up ; well then,
why give her up ? She was only a little thing in a hat shop, she
would do very much better—yes, but, somehow he had a certain
feeling