His name was Arthur
Mordaunt, but because it was the fashion at the time for a certain class
of people to address each other in monosyllables, his friends invariably
knew him as "John."
He dropped into a chair and regarded his companion with half-closed
eyes.
"Well, John. Dished, eh? Most infernal heat I ever endured! I can't
stand it, you know. I'll have to go away."
"Think," said the other, "think that at this moment somewhere in the
country there are great, cool, deep woods and lakes and waterfalls, and
we might be sitting in flannels instead of being clothed in these
garments of sin."
"Think," said George, "of nothing of the kind. Think of high upland
glens and full brown rivers, and hillsides where there is always wind.
Why do I tantalize myself and talk to a vexatious idiot like you?"
This young man had a deep voice, a most emphatic manner of speech, and a
trick of cheerfully abusing his friends which they rather liked than
otherwise.
"And why should I sit opposite six feet of foolishness which can give me
no comfort? Whew! But I think I am getting cool at last. I have sworn
to make use of my first half-hour of reasonable temperature and
consequent clearness of mind to plan flight from this place."
"May I come with you, my pretty maid? I am hideously sick of July in
town. I know Mabel will never forgive me, but I must risk it.
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