THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
“I wish she would not smile at me, Her eyes are like bright blots of ink.”
“Let us eat our beautiful buns!”
“Oh, she is coming in!” George heard the latch of the gate jar, “Forbid her to come in!” whispered Jenny, “I am afraid!” He heard the jar of heels on the gravel path. Yet he dared not turn. Only he clasped Jenny’s hand more tightly, as he waited for the voice. It was La Gambogi’s.
“Pray, pray, pardon me! I could not mistake the back of so old a friend.”
With the courage of despair, George turned and faced the woman.
“Even,” she smiled, “though his face has changed marvellously.”
“Madam,” he said, rising to his full height and stepping between her and his bride, “begone, I command you, from this garden. I do not see what good is to be served by the renewal of our acquaintance.”
“Acquaintance!” murmured La Gambogi, with an arch of her beetle-brows. “Surely we were friends, rather, nor is my esteem for you so dead that I would crave estrangement.”
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