"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!—--"
"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round us."
"Will you play with me?" says Dysart.
"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is at an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky Browne is on the spot.
Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a few people from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongst others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determined attempt at murder or suicide.
His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns a doubtful eye on Mr. Browne.
"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her."
"I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he does so. "He'll tell me a story."
"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered a little from the shock—Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. My tales are always strictly moral."