Read The Daughters of Mrs Peacock for Free Online Page B

said. ‘We’ve come here to play croquet, you know, not to talk about love.’
    â€˜I rather hoped,’ he said meaningly, ‘that we might do both.’
    â€˜Since I’m to choose,’ said Sarah, ‘I shall take the red and the yellow. That means you begin.’
    â€˜Must I?’ he said unhappily.
    â€˜Certainly you must. It’s laid down in the rules. Blue, red, black, yellow: that’s the order of play.’
    â€˜Well … if you insist.’
    The game began. It proceeded in an uneasy silence, punctuated by brief conventional exclamations. Mr Pardew played well. He had a good eye and wielded the mallet with grace and precision. It was impossible to deny that he was a personable young man. His lithe athletic figure showed to great advantage in this agreeable exercise, and Sarah could have admired it without stint or afterthought but for knowing that his mind, like her own, was elsewhere, not on the game. Even so, she could not help enjoying the sunshine, the scent of the grass, the delicious moment of contact between her mallet and the ball; but an uneasy suspicion of his intentions weighed upon her spirit, making these pleasures of the senses fitful and precarious. She knew, all too well, what was hatching in his mind. She could already hear in imagination the prepared phrases, the sentimental sighs, the quotations from the poets. It was flattering, disturbing, totally unexpected. It was also, for reasons she could not stop to analyse, profoundly unwelcome. Had she liked him less she could have laughed at his ridiculous plan: had she liked him much, much more, she might have been tempted to entertain it.
    She won the game by a narrow margin. Her opponent was radiant with satisfaction.
    â€˜Splendid, splendid,’ he cried, clapping his hands. ‘
Ave, victrix!
A most enjoyable game and the happiest possible ending.’
    â€˜If you talk like that,’ she said tartly, ‘I shall think you weren’t trying.’
    â€˜Oh, but I was, I do assure you,’ he protested. ‘Nevertheless, since justice has been vindicated, I rejoice.’
    â€˜I’m not sure that I approve of that,’ said Sarah, belabouring the theme in the hope of avoiding seriousness. ‘To be a good loser is quite the thing, I know. But unless you can contrive to seem just a little mortified, you cheat me, don’t you see, of my triumph.’
    Puzzled, contrite, anxious to please, ‘But … but surely …’ he stammered.
    â€˜Dear Mr Pardew, don’t look so worried,’ she cut in. ‘I was only joking. It’s a bad habit of mine.’ She despaired of him: how could one talk to a man so obtuse? ‘Shall we go in now? Or would you like another game, so that you can take your revenge?’
    â€˜Thank you, but no. I’ve no wish for revenge. Far from it. Far from it indeed.’ Weighting his words with solemn unction, holding her in the leash of his soulful gaze, ‘I am more, more than content to be conquered, Miss Sarah,’ he said, ‘by you.’
    â€˜That you’ve already made plain,’ she answered, turning away. ‘It’s very disobliging of you, Mr Pardew. One should always play to win, else there’s no game. Come along, we’d better go in. You’ll stay to tea, won’t you?’
    â€˜But
have
I?’ he said eagerly. ‘Have I made my meaning plain? I fear not. Give me another moment or two, dear Miss Sarah. Hear me out.’
    Seeing no way of escape, short of impossible rudeness, she faced him again, saying earnestly: ‘I do assure you, Mr Pardew, the subject is not worth pursuing.’
    â€˜How can you say that, before I have spoken? May I tell you what is in my heart?’
    â€˜Truly,’ she said, ‘I would rather you didn’t. I think it would embarrass us both.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘I’m desolated.’ He stood very