“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.