My next mild suggestion was, “Do you play picquet?”
“Don’t know one card from another.”
I sighed, as if with mingled regret and boredom.
It was a very insincere sigh! for, to begin with, I loathe any form of card-playing myself; I don’t believe the story that cards were invented to please a mad king. I believe he was driven mad by the card-games of the period! Secondly, I wasn’t one bit bored. I was revelling in the spectacle of this wretched young man—imagine being able to employ such a phrase to the Grand Panjandrum himself!—this wretched young man looking so acutely uncomfortable and at such a loss.
Gleefully I allowed yet another long and awkward pause to take place.
Then, I put my hand—the left one—up to my mouth as if to stifle a yawn. Then I glanced at the ship in full sail that rocked to and fro on the face of the grandfather’s clock, and murmured resignedly: “Only twenty minutes past nine?”
“I am afraid that clock is always kept ten minutes fast,” said my host.
I sighed again, more deeply.
Then I allowed my eyes to wander, as if vainly seeking the way of escape!—round the comfortable, masculine-looking room. Actually, my glance was caught by an odd-looking arrangement of wires across the ceiling.