"Why shouldn't she believe it?" countered Spence. "Don't you suppose
I can tell a lie properly?"
"To be honest--I don't."
"Well," somewhat gloomily, "this one seemed to go over all right. It
went much farther than I ever expected. It's far too up-and-coming.
The way it grows frightens me. At first there was nothing--just an
'experience.' A mild abstraction, buried in the past, a sentimental
'has-been' without form or substance. Then, without warning, the
experience acquired a name, and then a history and then, just when I
had begun to forget about it, hair suddenly popped up, yellow hair,
and, the day after, eyes--blue eyes, misty. The nose remains
indeterminate, but noses often do. Only yesterday I felt compelled
to add a mouth. Small and red, I made it--ugh! How I hate a small
red mouth. Oh, if it amuses you--all right!"
"Laugh at it yourself, old man! It's all you can do. But what a
frightful list of blunders. If you had to tell a lie why didn't you
take Mark Twain's advice and tell a good one? The name, for
instance--why on earth did you choose 'Mary?' Even 'Marion' would
have been safer. Don't you know you can't turn a corner in Bain-
bridge or anywhere else without stumbling over a Mary? There's a
Mary in my office at the present minute and--yes, by Jove, she has
golden hair!"
The professor looked stubborn.
"My Mary's hair was not golden. It was yellow, plain yellow. I
remember I made a point of that.
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