“I’m not playing at all, darling. I can’t play. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. One would expect a little mercy from a girl who wears his engagement—”
“There! you moved your ball just as I was about to strike for it!”
The Artist groaned and replaced the ball. She plumped her own into it dexterously from half-way across the field, and proceeded on the home stretch.
“I don’t know how long I’m going to stand this suspense,” sighed the Artist, “and yet you resist all my pleadings to name the day—”
“Arthur, I am playing croquet. Will you kindly stand one side?”
She played safely up to the last arch.
“If the date was fixed, dear, I think I could bear your lack of—enthusiasm; that is, if the date were reasonably near—”
“Can’t you keep away from the handle of my mallet, Arthur? Now I’m staked on your ball, and must risk all on one last stroke.”
“Oh, you’ll make it,” groaned the Artist. “I wish that ball was my head. Any sort of attention would be better than none at all. I’ve lost all hope of getting another kiss—”
“Ha! Whitewashed! whitewashed!” sang the girl, dancing about the stake. “Perhaps there’s some other game you play?”