Page:The Yellow Book - 08.djvu/70

every part of the silver and polished wood of her banjo, and her pretty fingers, too, caught the rays on their rings and their rosy opalescent nail-tips. I could have shaken her where she lay: was she enjoying herself, did she like it . . . ?

"Now, Miss Silverdale, you forgot your accent there!" corrected Willie Ruthven, in tones that subdued themselves to a growling tenderness—more could not be demanded of his gruff organ—and even while I inwardly blustered, I felt the humour of the moment steal over me irresistibly. Modern love-making! Should I do it for The Appreciator? Love-making over that blatant ditty to the poetess of A Trial of Flight!

But Mamie was claiming my attention.

"Mr. Transfield, are you good at riddles! We have a book of them here—come and help us to guess them, they are such fun!"

Riddles—and a book of them! . . . Well, I went and listened to these riddles; of my help in guessing them, one can say little, nor, indeed, was much opportunity for distinction afforded. Like most posers of enigmas, Mamie had but one ambition: to give you the answer. . . .

"And your sister, does she like riddles too?"

I asked it almost involuntarily, annoyed at their persistent ignoring of her (I don't know whether it was chivalry or—some other feeling, that incensed me so with her exclusion, her isolation. . . ); and then, besides, a riddle—even of this kind—must remind me, must so inevitably suggest her to me. . . . I have not guessed that answer, either, and there was no Mamie to tell it me. . . . Perhaps there isn't any? Dieu sait! . . .

"Lucille—oh, Lucille! She never guesses anything, never even tries or listens; too much absorbed in intellectual pursuits!"

"For instance?" I queried, eyebrows irresistibly elevated inmy