“They’ve not invited you to play against Somerset next week?” she asked, with bated breath; “because if they have I can understand it.”
“No,” I said, “they’ve not.”
“Then I think they’re very mean,” said Mary; “but what is the matter, Ricky?”
Now Mary had a way with her that I never could resist. Besides here is a difference between the sexes. We have only one way of getting to know anything we want to know, and that is blunt demand; but a woman has five thousand ways or more, mostly indirect, to make the Sphinx unfold its bosom. Therefore it was a rule of mine to accept the inevitable straight away in the case of Mary. Sooner or later she was bound to catch me napping, besides, an early concession spared us both a vast amount of trouble.
“Do you know Laura Trentham?” said I desperately.
“Oh, yes,” said Mary.
“Wouldn’t you call her no end of a nice girl?”
“She’s a very dear girl,” said Mary warmly. “Quite one of the nicest girls I know—if she wouldn’t talk slang.”
“Slang!” said I. “Why, does she talk slang?”
“Dreadfully,” said Mary, in that tone of high reproof that the best sisters are so fond of. “Dreadfully, Ricky. Isn’t it a pity?”