“What would a girl be doing with fencing lessons?” exclaimed Mr. Lupton, scornfully.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just exercise. It might be useful sometime,” said Mermaid, vaguely.
“You’re just thinking of something you two can do together.” Jealousy reawakened in Mr. Lupton’s bosom.
“Well, he writes poetry, and we can’t write poetry together.”
“No, but he can write it and read it to you,” the youth said, bitterly. “Wishy-washy stuff, poetry. All except ‘Marmion,’” he qualified.
“Oh, Tommy, don’t be foolish,” sighed the young woman.
An amusing thought struck Mr. Lupton.
“Wait till I tell Dick he writes poetry,” he cried. “Ow! Won’t he yell? Won’t he?
“Just like a foreigner to stab a man with a thing like this,” Tommy continued, imperilling the haircloth seat of one of the “deacon’s chairs” with an unskilful lunge.
At this Mermaid lost all patience.