"It's the same aunt that I've always had," said Clovis coldly.
"I perfectly well remember meeting you at a luncheon-party given
by your aunt," persisted Tarrington, who was beginning to flush an
unhealthy shade of mottled pink.
"What was there for lunch?" asked Clovis.
"Oh, well, I don't remember that--"
"How nice of you to remember my aunt when you can no longer recall
the names of the things you ate. Now my memory works quite
differently. I can remember a menu long after I've forgotten the
hostess that accompanied it. When I was seven years old I
recollect being given a peach at a garden-party by some Duchess or
other; I can't remember a thing about her, except that I imagine
our acquaintance must have been of the slightest, as she called me
a 'nice little boy,' but I have unfading memories of that peach.
It was one of those exuberant peaches that meet you halfway, so to
speak, and are all over you in a moment. It was a beautiful
unspoiled product of a hothouse, and yet it managed quite
successfully to give itself the airs of a compote. You had to
bite it and imbibe it at the same time. To me there has always
been something charming and mystic in the thought of that delicate
velvet globe of fruit, slowly ripening and warming to perfection
through the long summer days and perfumed nights, and then coming
suddenly athwart my life in the supreme moment of its existence.
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