“I fancy we all keep some of these little pet superstitions,” said Carington.
“I assure you, we are rather proud of ours,” returned Anne.
The chat went on, grave and gay by turns, and at last Lyndsay came back, saying:
“I retire after a sad defeat.”
“My papa plays cards abominably, Mr. Carington. He writes verses better.”
“Rose! Rose! None of that nonsense.”
“The fact is, when we were talking about the charades of poets’ names, I meant to repeat the endings papa made for some of them, but, when I mentioned it to him, he shook his head like a China mandarin, and I weakly gave up. He is doing it now,” and she laughed. “Oh, I am even with you at last, Pardy, because you left me yesterday in the anguish of ungratified curiosity. This is my vengeance.”
“It is incomplete,” said Carington.
“Blush, Pardy, but tell us the verses.” Lyndsay declared that the verse was hardly worth a fight.
“I can recall only two,” he said. “Here is one: