became unbearable. He remembered how he and Connie, an exquisite, long-legged child of fifteen, had knocked over and broken a Dresden group during a scrimmage. They had secretly substituted for it another almost exactly like the first, except that the dress of the shepherdess which had been blue with pink flowers, was now pink with blue flowers. There it stood, just where their guilty hands had placed it, so many years ago, and he could not resist taking it off the mantelpiece and examining it. It was one of old Madame Peritôt's most prized possessions, and how they laughed when they realized that she had never noticed the difference! It might easily have met the fate just then of its unlucky predecessor, for he nearly dropped it, so suddenly and quietly did Connie enter—and such a Connie!
It was characteristic of Eric that he never said anything suitable to occasions. He kissed her cheek, and then said, holding her at arm's length and looking at her:
"You must come and dine with me. What do you say to a sole and a broiled chicken somewhere?"
But Connie felt that something more was due to the situation, so she clung to his arm and found—or seemed to find—speech difficult.
