“Elsa!”
“I did!” she went on, defiantly. “I hit him as hard as I could, and he-he”-she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter-“he tripped over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn’t a bit ashamed. I didn’t think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And it stopped him talking.”
“But, Elsa, dear! Why?”
“The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn’t see the resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn’t starving. And he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that was when I hit him.”
“Elsa!”
Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I’ll get up. It looks lovely out.”
Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs. Keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tried, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near the terrace.
“Why, Martin, why aren’t you out with the guns?” she said.
“I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.”
“How nice of you! Why don’t you sit down?”
“May I?”
Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.
“You know, you’re a very restful person, Martin. You’re so big and outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so lazy.”
Martin took the magazine.
“What shall I read? Here’s a poem by-”
Elsa shuddered.
“Oh, please, no,” she cried. “I couldn’t bear it. I’ll tell you what I should love-the advertisements. There’s one about sardines. I started it, and it seemed splendid. It’s at the back somewhere.”
“Is this it-Langley and Fielding’s sardines?”
“That’s it.”
Martin began to read.
” ‘Langley and Fielding’s sardines. When you want the daintiest, most delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, “Langley and Fielding’s, please!” You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked sardines, packed in the purest olive oil.’ ”
Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth.
“Go on,” she said, dreamily.
” ‘Nothing nicer,’ ” resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as the theme began to develop, ” ‘for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!” ‘
“Isn’t it lovely?” she murmured.
Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.
“Don’t stop reading,” she said. “I never heard anything so soothing.”
“Elsa!”
He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.
“Elsa, I-”
“Mr. Keith,” said a quiet voice, “desired me to say-”
Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them stood Keggs. The butler’s face was shining with a gentle benevolence.
“Mr. Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would come and sit with him for a while.”
“I’ll come at once,” said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.
The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him as he moved across the terrace.
“What a saintly old man Keggs looks,” said Elsa. “Don’t you think so? He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he shouldn’t. I wonder if he ever has?”
“I wonder!” said Martin.
“He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he came up?”
Pots O’ Money
Owen bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr. Sheppherd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred that, if you have got to have young men to chant “We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia,” in the Artists’ Ball scene, you might just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a googly bowler who had done well in the last ‘Varsity match; but he had been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr. Sheppherd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.