I
suppose few readers guessed the author's state of mind when he wrote
it. I looked over his shoulder to see what he had written, and
couldn't help laughing aloud--I verily believe that it was his way
of turning off attention from his arm, and leading me safely from
the region of awkward questions.
"By-the-by," I exclaimed, "your writing of garden-parties reminds
me. I went to one at Campden Hill the other day, and had the good
fortune to meet Miss Freda Merrifield."
How his face lighted up, poor fellow, and what a flood of questions
he poured out. "She looked very well and very pretty," I replied.
"I played two sets of tennis with her. She asked after you directly
she saw me, seeming to think that we always hunted in couples. I
told her you were living here, taking care of an invalid father; but
just then up came the others to arrange the game. She and I got the
best courts, and as we crossed over to them she told me she had met
your brother several times last autumn, when she had been staying
near Aldershot. Odd that he never mentioned her here; but I don't
suppose she made much impression on him.
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