“I like croquet for some things,” said Laura’s partner, the thin curate, after vainly trying to render her a service; “I but it’s a very unchristian-like sort of game—one seems to give all one’s love to one’s friends, and to keep none for one’s enemies.”
“O, come, I say,” laughed Charley, who seemed to be in high spirits. “Here’s Mr Louther talking about love to Miss Bray!”
“Indeed, I assure you—” exclaimed the curate.
“But I distinctly heard the word,” laughed Charley.
“Was that meant for a witticism?” sneered Laura.
“Wit? no!” said Charley good-humouredly. “I never go in for that sort of thing.”
“Bai Jove, Vining! why don’t you attend to the ga-a-a-me?” drawled Max, who was suffering from too much of the second Miss Lingon—a young lady who looked upon him as an Adonis.
“Not my turn,” said Charley.
“Yes, yes!” said Hugh Lingon innocently. “Miss Bedford wants you to help her along!”
“Of course,” sneered Laura. “Such impudence!”