First, Arabella's little hand must be moulded into a bridge, and, being
slow to cramp itself correctly, though pliant as a politician's
conscience, the operation of folding it together had to be many times
repeated. Next, shots must be made for her, she retaining her hold of
the cue, to get into the way of it. Then all went on smoothly with her,
turbulently with me, until, enthusiastically excited, she must be
lifted on to the table's edge, "just to try one lovely little shot,"
which escaped her reach from the ground.
My game was up!
We were alone. Arabella perched upon the table, jubilant at having
achieved a pocket,--I dismal and blue, beside her.
"There, take me down," she said.
I looked around through each window, inclined my ear to the door, swept
an arm around her waist, and forgot to proceed.
"Oh, Arabella! Arabella! wherefore art thou Arabella?"
"Do you wish I were somebody else?" she asked, slyly.
"No, no! but what of Frank Lillivan?"
"Frank, do you know him?" (With a luminous face.)
"And he has told me----yes.
Pages:
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286