"You must take a peep, St. George," she said in her husband's ear, that
she might be heard over the noise of the tram, without roaring. "It's
that beautiful Miss Grant I told you about; and she's with the Roman
Prince who invented the parachute Rongier used in the Nice 'flying
week.' They are certainly in love with each other! They couldn't look as
they do if they weren't. Perhaps they're engaged. Poor Dick! All his
trouble for nothing."
"Why poor Dick?" inquired the Reverend George Winter.
"Oh, my dear Saint, don't put on your long-distance manner, and forget
everything that hasn't a direct connection with heaven. But these two
quite look as if they'd just been up there by special aeroplane. Don't
you remember my telling you, Dick's awfully in love with this girl, and
took me to see her again yesterday, though she never returned my first
call? But I was glad I went, because she was really sweet and charming,
and I hated to think of her living in that deadly villa."
"Yes, I remember distinctly," said Winter, with a twinkle of humour in
the eyes which seemed always to see things that no one else could see.
"You told me when I was in the midst of writing a sermon, and had got to
a particularly knotty point; so I tangled Dick and his love affairs into
the knot, while trying to put them out of my mind. I'm afraid they
didn't do my sermon much good. And beautiful as Miss Grant may be, I
won't dislocate my neck to look at her in a tram. I advise you not to do
so, either.
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