Fitzgerald," she
observed, as she resumed her seat. "You are making Madge jealous."
"So he is," answered Madge, with a gay laugh. "I shall certainly inform
Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks."
"Here he comes, then," said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson,
having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined
the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked
remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down
with a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness it's over, and that I have won," he said, wiping his
heated brow; "galley slaves couldn't have worked harder than we have
done, while all you idle folks sat SUB TEGMINE FAGI."
"Which means?" asked his wife, lazily.
"That onlookers see most of the game," answered her husband,
impudently.
"I suppose that's what you call a free and easy translation," said
Peterson, laughing. "Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for
your new and original adaptation of Virgil."
"Let it be iced then," retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the
ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the
network of leaves. "I always like my 'something' iced."
"It's a way you've got," said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a
glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump
of ice clinking musically against the side of it.
"He's not the only one who's got that way," said Peterson,
gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.
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