“I wondered whether Arthur would have sufficient diplomacy to let you win, Galatea,” said the Poet, with a perfectly straight face, his approach having been unobserved; “but it seems that I did him an injustice.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Galatea with dignity; “but if you want to make it a three-handed game, I’ll undertake to whitewash you both.”
“Oh, there’s nothing in it for me,” drawled the Poet aggravatingly; “however, I’m obliging by nature; I don’t mind simplifying things for Arthur.”
Galatea, with her nose in the air, sent her ball through the first two arches with a single stroke, and with the two thus gained took position, made the third arch, and with a swift safe drive for the middle one, which she missed, found herself well out of the way of hostile balls.
“There,” she said; “I don’t mind giving you the advantage by starting first.”
“Your generosity deserves a better reward,” said the Poet, as he selected a mallet with great care, “but some twenty years’ observation of the game has taught me that the croquet field is where friendship ceases.”
The Poet’s lank, knobby figure was about as symmetrical as that of a daddy-longlegs, but he had the eye of a champion marksman, and no nerves at all. He followed his sister’s tactics, and improved upon them. He took his position at the third arch with such nicety that in striking through it he sent his ball to within a yard of where Galatea’s lay.
“Any odds?” he asked coolly, as he clicked them together.
Galatea was scornfully silent. The Poet’s “split” for position at the centre arch was defective, and with brutal disregard of the Artist’s feelings he took position directly in line with the two first arches.
“Arthur,” ordered Galatea, “come straight through and use your two strokes to get George’s ball.”