“Not a bad break,” he said, “I shall have a cigarette.”
“What are we going to do after lunch?” asked she gently, as Jim walked off to the far end of the ground.
“Just exactly whatever you like so long as we do it by ourselves. I haven’t seen you all morning.”
“I know; it’s been beastly,” said she, “but May’s a dear, you know, and she wanted to talk about Harry, and I rather wanted to talk about you, so we both talked together, and I can’t remember a word she said.”
Claude was lying face downward on the grass, nursing his match, and Dora was looking at the short hair on the back of his neck. Then quickly and suddenly she looked up.
“Oh, Jim, you cheated,” she cried. “I saw you move that ball with your foot. What a brute he is! He always cheats at croquet, and is always found out. I don’t cheat: I only lose my temper. Claude, dear, keep an eye on him. Or perhaps you cheat too, do you? Oh, what a heavenly day. Do let’s go on the lake after you’ve finished your game. You shall row and steer, and I shall encourage you.”
Dora passed over the fact of Jim’s cheating as she passed over the other numerous topics of her conversation, things to be alluded to and left behind, and Claude, sitting up again when he had got a light, made no comment whatever to it. Jim continued to play calmly and correctly, and at the end of his break came toward them, leaving an unpromising position.
“You talk more rot in a short space of time than anyone I ever saw,” he remarked. “What with shooting at running pheasants and saying I cheat, you make my head whirl.”
“Oh, but you did, I saw you,” said Dora calmly. “Why not grant it?”
She paused a moment as Claude aimed, and then continued: