"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. I turned
on him.

"Out with it!" I said.