The Real Charlotte, 1 7 



otner court, and was even making praiseworthy attempts to 

 applaud the very feeble efforts of the players. He was tall 

 and slight, with a near-sighted stoop, and something of an 

 old-fashioned, eighteenth century look about him that was 

 accentuated by his not wearing a moustache, and was out of 

 keeping with the flannels and brilliant blazer that are the 

 revolutionary protest of this age against its orthodox clothing. 

 It did not seem to occur to him that he was doing anything 

 unusual in occupying himself, as he was now doing, in pick- 

 ing up balls for the Lismoyle curate and his partner ; he 

 would have thought it much more remarkable had he found 

 in himself a preference for doing anything else. This was 

 an occupation that demanded neither interest nor conversa- 

 tion, and of a number of disagreeable duties he did not 

 think that he had chosen the worst. 



Charlotte walked up to him as he stood leaning against a 

 tree, and held out her hand. 



" How d'ye do, Mr. Dysart ? " she said with marked 

 politeness. All trace of combat had left her manner, and 

 the smile with which she greeted him was sweet and capaci- 

 ous. "We haven't seen you in Lismoyle since you came 

 back from the West Indies." 



Christopher Dysart let his eyeglass fall, and looked 

 apologetic as he enclosed her well-filled glove in his long 

 hand, and made what excuses he could for not having called 

 upon Miss Mullen. 



" Since Captain Thesiger has got this new steam-launch I 

 can't call my soul my own ; I'm out on the lake with him 

 half the day, and the other half I spend with a nail-brush 

 trying to get the blacks off." 



He spoke with a hesitation that could hardly be called a 

 stammer, but was rather a delaying before his sentences, a 

 mental rather than a physical uncertainty. 



" Oh, that's a very poor excuse," said Charlotte with loud 

 aflfability, " deserting your old friends for the blacks a second 

 time ! I thought you had enough of them in the last two 

 years ! And you know you promised — or your good mother 

 did for you — that you'd come and photograph poor old Mrs. 

 Tommy before she died. The poor thing's so sick now we 

 have to feed her with a baby's bottle." 



Christopher wondered if Mrs. Tommy were the cook, and 



B 



