I
gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane
restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
"I've got to go up tomorrow," he remarked.
"Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town," said I.
"D----d hole," observed George.
I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.
A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.
"George, George!" I cried. "There she is--Look!"
George looked, raised his hat with sufficient politeness, and
remarked to me:
"Hang it, one sees those people everywhere."
I am not easily surprised, but I confess I turned to George with
an expression of wonder.
"A fortnight ago--" I began.
"Don't be an ass, Sam," said George, rather sharply. "She's not
a bad girl, but--" He broke off and began to whistle. There was
a long pause. I lit a cigar, and looked at the people.
"I lunched at the Micklehams' today," said George, drawing a
figure on the gravel with his cane. "Mickleham's not a bad fellow."
"One of the best fellows alive," I agreed.
"I wonder why she married him, though," mused George; and he
added, with apparent irrelevance, "It's a dashed bore, going up."
And then a smile spread over his face; a blush accompanied it,
and proclaimed George's sense of delicious wickedness.
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