"God forbid!" reply I, with devout force.
"Not? well, then—I am really afraid this is a question again, but I cannot help it. If you will not volunteer information, I must ask for it—who is to be your companion?"
"I suppose they will take turns," say I, relapsing into dejection, as I think of the precarious nature of the society on which I depend; "sometimes one, sometimes another, whichever can get away best—they will take turns."
"And who is to have the first turn?" he asks, leaning back in the corner of the seat, so as to have a fuller view of my lamentable profile; "when is the first installment of consolatory relatives to arrive?"
"Algy and Barbara were to have come to-day," reply I, feeling a covert resentment against something of faintly gibing in his tone, but being conscious that it is not perceptible enough to justify another snub, even if I had one ready, which I have not.
"And they did not?"
"Now is not that a silly question?" cry I, tartly, venting the crossness born of my desolation on the only person within reach; "if they had, should I be sitting moping here with nobody but Vick to talk to?"
"You forget me! may I not run in couples even with a dog?" he asks, with a little bitter laugh.
"I did not forget you," reply I, coolly; "but you do not affect the question one way or another—you will be gone directly and—when you are—"
"Thank you for the hint," he cries springing up, picking up his little stick off the grass and flushing.