CROQUET.
While William Maubray was thus employed, Mr. Trevor agreeably accosted Miss Violet.
“Now we are to choose the ground, you know, Miss Darkwell—you are to choose it, in fact. I think, don’t you, it looks particularly smooth just there. By Jove it does!—really, now, just like a billiard-table, behind those a—those a—what-d’ye-callem’s—the evergreens there.”
“I think it does, really,” said Miss Vi, gliding very contentedly into his ambuscade. “There’s a little shade too.”
“Yes, lots of shade; I hate the sun. I’m afraid my deeds are darkness, as Dr. Mainwaring says. There’s only one sort of light I really like, now, upon my honour—the light—the light you—you know, the light that comes from Miss Darkwell’s eyes—ha, ha! upon my honour.”
The idea was not quite original, perhaps, but Miss Darkwell blushed a little, and smiled, as it were, on the leaves, and wondered how soon the messenger with the croquet things would return. And Mr. Trevor consulted his watch, and said he would allow him a quarter of an hour more, and added that he would willingly allow the poor little beggar an hour, or any time; for his part, the—the time, in fact, went only too fast for him.
Miss Perfect, looking over her spectacles, and then with elevated chin through them, said:
“Where have they gone to? can you see?”
“I don’t know—I suppose sauntering about—they can’t be very far,” answered William, looking a little uneasily. And somehow forgetting that he was in the midst of a dialogue with Aunt Dinah, he strode away, whistling a little air, anxiously, in the direction in which he had left them.