A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.
“George, George!” I cried. “There she is--Look!”
George looked, raised his hat with sufficient politeness, and remarked
to me:
“Hang it, one sees those people everywhere.”
I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned to George with an
expression of wonder.
“A fortnight ago--” I began.
“Don’t be an ass, Sam,” said George, rather sharply. “She’s not a bad
girl, but--” He broke off and began to whistle. There was a long pause.
I lit a cigar, and looked at the people.
“I lunched at the Micklehams’ today,” said George, drawing a figure on
the gravel with his cane. “Mickleham’s not a bad fellow.”
“One of the best fellows alive,” I agreed.
“I wonder why she married him, though,” mused George; and he added, with
apparent irrelevance, “It’s a dashed bore, going up.” And then a smile
spread over his face; a blush accompanied it, and proclaimed George’s
sense of delicious wickedness. I turned on him.
“Out with it!” I said.
“It’s nothing. Don’t be a fool,” said George.
“Where did you get that rose?” I asked.
“This rose?” he repeated, fondling the blossom. “It was given to me.”
Upon this I groaned--and I still consider that I had good reason for my
action. It was the groan of a moralist.
“They’ve asked me to stay at The Towers next vac.,” said George,
glancing at me out of the corner of an immoral eye. Perhaps he thought
it too immoral, for he added, “It’s all right, Sam.” I believe that I
have as much self control as most people, but at this point I chuckled.
“What the deuce are you laughing at?” asked George.