That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do) George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but he made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
'I've got to go up to-morrow,' he remarked.
'Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town,' said I.
'Dd 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' to-day,' said George, drawing a figure on the gravel with his cane. 'Mirkleham'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
