'You have no idea what work I have had, and how
ferociously all the women have looked at me.'
The match was going on. The Lancers were scuffling for the ball, and
affording a fine display of hog-maned ponies and close-cropped young men
in ideal boots. But Lesbia cared very little about the match. She was
looking along the serried ranks of youth and beauty to see if anybody's
frock was smarter than her own.
No. She could see nothing she liked so well as her brown satin and
buttercups. She sat down in a perfectly contented frame of mind, pleased
with herself and with Seraphine--pleased even with Mr. Smithson, who had
shown himself devoted by his patient attendance upon the empty chairs.
After the match was over the two ladies and their attendant strolled
about the gardens. Other men came and fluttered round Lesbia, and women
and girls exchanged endearing smiles and pretty little words of greeting
with her, and envied her the brown frock and buttercups and Mr. Smithson
at her chariot wheel. And then they went to the lawn in front of the
club-house, which was so crowded that even Mr.
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