CHAPTER XIII


Mr. Francis Charles Boland, propped up on one elbow, sprawled upon a rug
spread upon the grass under a giant willow tree at Mitchell House, deep
in the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart. Mr. Ferdinand Sedgwick tip-toed
unheard across the velvet sward. He prodded Frances Charles with his toe.

"Ouch!" said Francis Charles.

"You'll catch your death of cold. Get up! Your company is desired."

"Go 'way!"

"Miss Dexter wants you."

"Don't, either. She was coiled in the hammock ten minutes ago. Wearing a
criminal négligé. Picturesque, but not posing. She slept; I heard her
snore."

"She's awake now and wants you to make a fourth at bridge; you two
against Elsie and me."

"Botheration! Tell her you couldn't find me."

"I would hush the voice of conscience and do your bidding gladly,
old thing, if it lay within the sphere of practical politics. But,
unfortunately, she saw you."