across the racecourse just as the horses are coming out.
“I can’t manage it, Princess,” he said at last, in a despairing tone. This royal term of address he had adopted out of a choice of pet names used by Mrs. Austin’s intimes, and in preference to “Aunt Lizzie,” “Lady Racquet,” and “Bright-eyes,” which were the favourite noms de guerre in her inner circle. “You ought to go Home and get your portrait done by one of the great stars. Millais would be delighted to paint your head. It is too good to be wasted on a wretched amateur like me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t be bothered to sit still all the time. I am as tired as a cat now, and haven’t got a kick left, I believe.”
“But you must not say that when you go to England, you know. Some people do, of course; but it isn’t good form, and I don’t like to hear you talk nothing but slang.”
“Why, what must I say?” inquired Lizzie, leaning forward with clasped hands outstretched before her, and, for a wonder, with a serious, inquiring look in her bright eyes.
“There! that’s the very thing—just stay like that for ten minutes, and my fortune’s made. Yes, just like that. Don’t smile, and don’t yawn, Princess, please—for my sake! Think of
