An Officer and a Lady and Other Stories

Arthur sighed, wheeled his chair around and began to wade through the pile of papers that had accumulated during his absence the day before. “She knows very well,” he grumbled, “that I’m too busy to run all over the blooming town like a footman.” Which was very true. Since his promotion — he regarded the term as pure sarcasm — to the Home Desk, he had been forced to spend at least an hour of each day in real work. To a young diplomat who had spent a full year in learning the delicate and subtle methods by which one may remain comfortably balanced between the Black and the White, this was indeed irksome. It necessitated a complete readjustment. More than once the picturesque inventions of a stranded beachcomber, sent down from Naples by an overworked but still credulous consul, had violently disturbed the nice balance of Arthur’s social position in the Eternal City, where the most alluring and entrancing eyes have a disconcerting way of looking in two directions at once.

“Miss Carlisle,” continued Arthur, still speaking aloud, and emphasizing the title. “Of course, she’s an old maid. Probably forty, possibly fifty, and certainly plain. She’ll want to do the whole blooming round. If anybody had asked me but—”

He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who approached his desk and stood waiting for him to speak.

“Well?” said Arthur, without looking up.

“A lady, sir.”

Arthur’s worst fears were confirmed. As he advanced to meet Miss Carlisle he swore, under his breath. Just in the height of the season, to waste a week on this! She could not be described better than in Arthur’s own words: probably forty, possibly fifty, and certainly plain. Lanky, angular, and yet somehow graceful, she advanced to meet the young diplomat with outstretched hand and a somewhat pleasing smile. Arthur extended his own hand, then stood still, staring with rude frankness over Miss Carlisle’s left shoulder.

“That,” said the very wealthy American lady, “is just what I expected. I’ve grown used to it in the past three weeks. Miss Moulton,” turning to the young woman who had been the object of Arthur’s surprised gaze, “this is Mr. Churchill-Brown. Miss Moulton is my companion,” she explained.

“Oh!” said the young man. Then, after a moment’s silence, “O... Oh!” he repeated.

At which foolish remark no one would be surprised who had ever had the good fortune to see Miss Moulton. She was the exact antithesis of Miss Carlisle; and added to the charm of her youth and beauty and loveliness was a certain indefinable air of disdain that chained the young man to the floor and left him speechless. While Miss Carlisle chattered amiably, something about having found him absent when they called the day before, and did he get her card, and wasn’t Rome a wonderful place, and weren’t the hotels the worst in the world, Arthur gazed openly at the companion, who finally found it necessary to turn away and begin an inspection of a portrait of the Duke of Wellington hanging nearby.