To say
truth, we had no desire to see our scalps affixed to Miss Trix's
pretty belt, nor to have our hearts broken (like that of the
young man in the poem) before she went to Homburg in the autumn.
With the curate it was otherwise. He--Jack Ives, by the way, was
his name--appeared to rush, not only upon his fate, but in the
face of all possibility and of Lady Queenborough. My cousin and
hostess, Dora Polton, was very much distressed about him. She
said that he was such a nice young fellow, and that it was a
great pity to see him preparing such unhappiness for himself.
Nay, I happen to know that she spoke very seriously to Trix,
pointing out the wickedness of trifling with him; whereupon Trix,
who maintained a bowing acquaintance with her conscience, avoided
him for a whole afternoon and endangered all Algy Stanton's
prudent resolutions by taking him out in the Canadian canoe.
This demonstration in no way perturbed the curate. He
observed that, as there was nothing better to do, we might as
well play billiards, and proceeded to defeat me in three games of
a hundred up (no, it is quite immaterial whether we played for
anything or not), after which he told Dora that the vicar was
taking the evening service--it happened to be the day when there
was one at the parish church--a piece of information only
relevant in so far as it suggested that Mr. Ives could accept an
invitation to dinner if one were proffered him.
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