Walter De la Mare

“ Eaves smiled vaguely, half-lifting his stick, as if in coquettish acknowledgment of his friend's jest.
“No, no, old friend,” he said, “not that, not that, I hope.”
“Gracious goodness,” said Mr. Sully cordially, “he mustn't take it to heart like that. A dream's a dream.”
“Why, of course, it is,” said Miss Lacey. “You ought to take more care of yourself, sir; didn't he, Mr. Sully?”
Mr. Eaves gazed dispassionately, and yet with some little dignity, in the isolation of attention he had evoked. He turned slowly towards the bar, and stooped a little—confidentially. ”

“ Sully shrewdly, half-closing his eyes as if to gloss over his finesse, “supposing a young man, a nice, curly-headed young man—just about our old friend's age here”—Miss Lacey, with a kind of arch and sympathetic good-nature, leaned a large, dark head to glance at Mr. Eaves—“supposing a nice young gentleman—just as it might be our old friend himself here—came, like an innocent, to entrust to your blessed bosom a secret—a sacred secret: what would you do?” ”

“ Eaves trustfully, “I don't mind my old friend, Mr. Sully, making a good deal of fun at my expense. He always has: eh, Sully? But he doesn't see. You don't see, Sully. There the thing is; and truth all over it. Facts are facts—in my belief.”
“But fire and brimstone, and suchlike; oh no!” said Miss Lacey with a dainty little shudder. “I can't credit it, reelly; oh no! And poor innocent infants, too! You may think of me what you like, but nothing 'll make me believe that.”
Mr. Sully looked over his shoulder at Mr. Eaves. “Oh, that,” said his old friend, “was only Mr. Sully's fun. ”