So, then, in glorious complete victory, the battle of the Bull-dogs ended!
Of the close of the pic-nic more remains to be told.
For the present I pause, in observance of those rules which demand that after an exhibition of consummate deeds, time be given to the spectator to digest what has passed before him.
CHAPTER XXXII.
IN WHICH EVAN’S LIGHT BEGINS TO TWINKLE AGAIN
The dowagers were now firmly planted on Olympus. Along the grass lay the warm strong colours of the evening sun, reddening the pine-stems and yellowing the idle aspen-leaves. For a moment it had hung in doubt whether the pic-nic could survive the two rude shocks it had received. Happily the youthful element was large, and when the band, refreshed by chicken and sherry, threw off half-a-dozen bars of one of those irresistible waltzes that first catch the ear, and then curl round the heart, till on a sudden they invade and will have the legs, a rush up Parnassus was seen, and there were shouts and laughter and commotion, as over other great fields of battle the corn will wave gaily and mark the reestablishment of nature’s reign.
How fair the sight! Approach the twirling couples. They talk as they whirl. “Fancy the run-away tailor!” is the male’s remark, and he expects to be admired for it, and is.
“That make-up Countess—his sister, you know—didn’t you see her? she turned green,” says Creation’s second effort, almost occupying the place of a rib.
“Isn’t there a run-away wife, too?”
“Now, you mustn’t be naughty!”
They laugh and flatter one another. The power to give and take flattery to any amount is the rare treasure of youth.