Booms’s reply was a mournful inclination of the head in the direction of Miss Crisp.
“Oh, I see. All right, old man. You’re a lucky fellow, I think. She looks a jolly sort of girl.”
“Lucky! Jolly! Oh, Cruden,” ejaculated his depressed friend.
“Why, what’s wrong?” said Horace. “Don’t you think she’s nice?”
“She is; but Shuckleford, Cruden, is not.”
“Hullo, you two,” said the voice of the gentleman in question at this moment; “you seem jolly thick. Oh, of course, shopmates; I forgot; both in the news line. Eh? Now, who’s for musical chairs? Don’t all speak at once.”
“I shall have to play the piano now, Mr Reginald,” said Miss Jemima, making a last effort to get a word out of her silent companion. “I’m afraid you’re not enjoying yourself a bit.”
Reginald rose instinctively as she did, and offered her his arm. He was half dreaming as he did so, and fancying himself back at Garden Vale. It was to his credit that when he discovered what he was doing he did not withdraw his arm, but conducted his partner gallantly to the piano, and said,—
“I’m afraid I’m a bad hand at games.”
“Musical chairs is great fun,” said Miss Jemima. “I wish I could play it and the piano both. You have to run round and round, and then, when the music stops, you flop down on the nearest chair, and there’s always one left out, and the last one wins the game. Do try it.”