t deal too dense to penetrate the
subtleties of feminine language. She might mean that she intends your
grooves to lie far apart for the future; and then again she might mean
something--something--else," continued Mr. Cottrell, rather vaguely.

"So you think Mary Bloxam intends to see as little of me in future as
possible?" rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, taking no manner of notice of her
companion's last words.

"No; don't say I think so," interrupted Mr. Cottrell. "I told you
particularly I could form no conclusion as to what she meant. However,
this place is neutral ground, and all the world meets here, or rather
would, if it was not so crowded that it is almost impossible to find
anybody. But--ah, here comes Lady Mary and _la belle_ Blanche! Shall
I stop her, and ask her what she does mean?" And Mr. Cottrell looked
so utterly unconscious, that any one who did not know him might have
deemed him actually about to put this awkward interrogatory. But the
two ladies to whom he was speaking knew him better than that, and only
laughed.

Whether Lady Mary intended to pass Mrs. Wriothesley with merely a bow
it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that Mr. Cottrell
supposed that to be her intention. Prompted by his insatiable passion
for teasing his fellow-creatures, he took advantage of his situation,
and, turning from Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, placed himself in Lady
Mary's way, and stopped her to shake hands. It was only natural that
Sylla should jump up to say "How do you do?" to Blanche; and then
suddenly occurred to Mrs. Wriothesley the audacious idea of capturing
her enemy and bearing her off in triumph to luncheon. She rose,
greeted Lady Mary and Blanche warmly, and then strongly urged that they
should come home with her to Hans Place when the Park should begin to
thin.

"You know, I am close to Prince's, and the Canadians are going to play
a match at La Crosse, which is well worth looking on at; such a pretty
game. We can go across and have our afternoon tea at the little tables
overlooking the cricket-ground. Everybody will be there."

"Mrs. Wriothesley is quite right," interposed Cottrell gravely. "Not
to have seen La Crosse played is as grave an omission this season as
not to have done the Opera, the Royal Academy, or other of the
stereotyped exhibitions. If you can't rave about the 'dexterity of the
dear Indians,' you are really not doing your duty to society. They are
the last new craze;