“I know what you’re going to say: ‘Man is man and master of his fate.’ Shakspere says ‘sometimes.’ I mean to play the waiting race. The man who can afford it gets three to one in his favor. I can only be beaten by a dash-horse now. Here comes the man whom I imagined was the favorite, and he is not entered for the race at all.”
Grey Seymour joined us, also arrayed in dark blue, a red rose in his button-hole.
“These are our favors,” laughed Price: “Miss Finche yellow, Miss Neville red.
“‘Oh! my love is like a red, red rose that sweetly blows in June!’”
And gaily humming that song which Sims Reeves has made all his own, he lounged out of the immense salle à manger, casting criticising glances en passant.
I am fond of the sea. I never was sick in my life, and once upon a time thought of running a saucy schooner. Would I, like Paul Pry, drop into this party with an “I hope I don’t intrude”?
The hour was rapidly approaching when I must take action with reference to my friend Mr. Price. He had entered Finche’s house under my ægis, and I was bound in honor to protect Finche and Finche’s child. Yes, I would join the yachting excursion bon gré mal gré, and in a few straight words tell Wilson Finche exactly how the land lay.
I donned a blue flannel suit—no man goes to Newport without one—and taking an old-fashioned telescope under my arm, went upon the piazza to await the appearance of Grey Seymour, who was still occupied in going through the entire menu for his matitudinal meal.
“A telegram for you, sir,” said the clerk, as I passed the desk.
“At last,” I muttered, as I tore it open.