“Thanks. I’ll remember.”
On the lawn below Lady Marchendale’s terrace garden Lord Parallax was flirting with a clever and audacious little woman in grey and silver. Ostensibly they were playing croquet, while old Percival Kex, Esq., sat in a French cane chair under the lime tree, and quizzed Parallax when he came within range.
“Well, will you take my bet, or not?”
“Don’t talk at the critical moment, sir. This game turns on the Suffrage question.”
“Here, Gracie, do you hear him trying to shirk my challenge?”
Miss Abercorn trailed her mallet towards the lime tree. Percival Kex was a character, with his tin-plate face, bold head, and eyes like blackberries. His tongue fished in many waters, and his genial cynicism was infinitely refreshing.
“I have wagered Parallax six sevenpenny insurance stamps that he won’t escape the Wriggling Lady.”
“My dear sir, how can I, when——”
“Wait a moment. One handshake, six smiles, and three minutes’ conversation will be allowed. After that you have got to keep clear, and I bet you you won’t.”
“Kex, I always lay myself out to be bored at these functions. That is why I am playing croquet, and attempting to get some compensation.”