“Fancy you marrying a Toff!” Horace Allwright had whispered to Mary over his beer.
“Why shouldn’t one, pray?” was the rejoinder of the future Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth.
“You are right—why not?” said Horace. “Because, after all, you are a Toff yourself.”
And in the middle of the King’s Parade the famous comedian reaffirmed the conviction.
“And he’s not a bad chap either, considerin’,” said Horace. “Damn good snooker, anyhow, and the best inside right that ever kicked a ball, except Steve Bloomer, and we’ll go and see him play to-morrow.”
“What do you think?” said Johnny Dubosque expansively, laying siege to a nursemaid—and a pretty one, too, in a very smart bonnet.
This is all quite trivial and doesn’t really help the narrative, but the point we wish to make is, that our friend Philip had not exactly wasted his morning, whatever may be the views of parents and guardians upon the subject. This idle, rich young man, instead of alienating sympathy for his class, had added two recruits to the chosen band of its friends and admirers. He had behaved very well in difficult circumstances, and he had now two more friends spread over the world than he had started out with in life. Consequently he had increased the public stock of human amenity, and we venture, therefore, to think that his morning had been very far from wasted.
Mary also had done very well, having brought Mr. Philip out of his shell a bit. Quite an eventful morning; nothing to what the following afternoon would be, though, when he had to play v Brighton and Hove Albion for the benefit of the widow and young family of the late Joe McPherson. After the match at snooker, Philip was borne off in triumph to Brighthelmstone’s leading sports emporium to find a white flannel shirt about his size and a pair of dark-blue knickerbockers, and a very smart pair of stockings, and some shin-guards, and, most important of all, a pair of boots that would fit him.
The morrow would be a great ordeal, particularly in a bran-new pair of boots, for a chap who had not kicked a ball for four years, but Mary was adamant, and the Olympians, too. A benefit match; a great draw for the public; do him all the good in the world.
“And we’ll have some special bills printed,” said Toddles with something suspiciously like a wink at the future Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth.