A Bed of Roses

by Walter Lionel George

'Oh, I can't queer your pitch, Beauty,' he said a little grimly. 'I know you, you low dog.'

Beauty laughed at the epithet. 'You've got no poetry about you, you North Country chaps, when a girl's as lovely as Victoria—'

'As lovely as Victoria,' he repeated a little louder as Victoria laid the cup of coffee before him.

'I know all about that,' said Victoria coolly, 'you don't come it over me like that, Nevy.'

'Cruel, cruel girl,' sighed Neville. 'Ah, if you only knew what I feel——'

Victoria put her hand on the tablecloth and, for a moment, looked down into Neville's blue eyes.

'You oughtn't to be allowed out,' she pronounced, 'you aren't safe.'

Jimmy got up as if he had been sitting on a suddenly released spring.

'Spoon away both of you,' he said smoothly, 'I'm going over to Parsons' to buy a racquet. Coming, Beauty? No, thought as much. Ta-ta, Vic. Excuse me. Steak and kidney pie is tenpence, not a shilling. Cheer oh! Beauty.'

'He's a rum one,' said Victoria, reflectively, as Jimmy passed the cash desk.