The Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw: Plays, Novels, Articles, Letters and Essays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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      He laughed, and she watched him take a couple of turns with the roller. Presently, refreshing himself by a look at her, he caught her looking at him, and smiled. His smile was commonplace in comparison with the one she gave him in return, in which her eyes, her teeth, and the golden grain in her complexion seemed to flash simultaneously. He stopped rolling immediately, and rested his chin on the handle of the roller.

      “If you neglect your work,” said she maliciously, “you won’t have the grass ready when the people come.”

      “What people?” he said, taken aback.

      “Oh, lots of people. Most likely some who know you. There are visitors coming from London: my guardian, my guardianess, their daughter, my mother, and about a hundred more.”

      “Four in all. What are they coming for? To see you?”

      “To take me away,” she replied, watching for signs of disappointment on his part.

      They were at once forthcoming. “What the deuce are they going to take you away for?” he said. “Is your education finished?”

      “No. I have behaved badly, and I am going to be expelled.”

      He laughed again. “Come!” he said, “you are beginning to invent in the Smilash manner. What have you done?”

      “I don’t see why I should tell you. What have you done?”

      “I! Oh, I have done nothing. I am only an unromantic gentleman, hiding from a romantic lady who is in love with me.”

      “Poor thing,” said Agatha sarcastically. “Of course, she has proposed to you, and you have refused.”

      “On the contrary, I proposed, and she accepted. That is why I have to hide.”

      “You tell stories charmingly,” said Agatha. “Goodbye. Here is Miss Carpenter coming to hear what we are taking about.”

      “Goodbye. That story of your being expelled beats — Might a common man make so bold as to inquire where the whitening machine is, Miss?”

      This was addressed to Jane, who had come up with some of the others. Agatha expected to see Smilash presently discovered, for his disguise now seemed transparent; she wondered how the rest could be imposed on by it. Two o’clock, striking just then, reminded her of the impending interview with her guardian. A tremor shook her, and she felt a craving for some solitary hiding-place in which to await the summons. But it was a point of honor with her to appear perfectly indifferent to her trouble, so she stayed with the girls, laughing and chatting as they watched Smilash intently marking out the courts and setting up the nets. She made the others laugh too, for her hidden excitement, sharpened by irrepressible shootings of dread, stimulated her, and the romance of Smilash’s disguise gave her a sensation of dreaming. Her imagination was already busy upon a drama, of which she was the heroine and Smilash the hero, though, with the real man before her, she could not indulge herself by attributing to him quite as much gloomy grandeur of character as to a wholly ideal personage. The plot was simple, and an old favorite with her. One of them was to love the other and to die brokenhearted because the loved one would not requite the passion. For Agatha, prompt to ridicule sentimentality in her companions, and gifted with an infectious spirit of farce, secretly turned for imaginative luxury to visions of despair and death; and often endured the mortification of the successful clown who believes, whilst the public roar with laughter at him, that he was born a tragedian. There was much in her nature, she felt, that did not find expression in her popular representation of the soldier in the chimney.

      By three o’clock the local visitors had arrived, and tennis was proceeding in four courts, rolled and prepared by Smilash. The two curates were there, with a few lay gentlemen. Mrs. Miller, the vicar, and some mothers and other chaperons looked on and consumed light refreshments, which were brought out upon trays by Smilash, who had borrowed and put on a large white apron, and was making himself officiously busy.

      At a quarter past the hour a message came from Miss Wilson, requesting Miss Wylie’s attendance. The visitors were at a loss to account for the sudden distraction of the young ladies’ attention which ensued. Jane almost burst into tears, and answered Josephs rudely when he innocently asked what the matter was. Agatha went away apparently unconcerned, though her hand shook as she put aside her racket.

      In a spacious drawingroom at the north side of the college she found her mother, a slight woman in widow’s weeds, with faded brown hair, and tearful eyes. With her were Mrs. Jansenius and her daughter. The two elder ladies kept severely silent whilst Agatha kissed them, and Mrs. Wylie sniffed. Henrietta embraced Agatha effusively.

      “Where’s Uncle John?” said Agatha. “Hasn’t he come?”

      “He is in the next room with Miss Wilson,” said Mrs. Jansenius coldly. “They want you in there.”

      “I thought somebody was dead,” said Agatha, “you all look so funereal. Now, mamma, put your handkerchief back again. If you cry I will give Miss Wilson a piece of my mind for worrying you.”

      “No, no,” said Mrs. Wylie, alarmed. “She has been so nice!”

      “So good!” said Henrietta.

      “She has been perfectly reasonable and kind,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

      “She always is,” said Agatha complacently. “You didn’t expect to find her in hysterics, did you?”

      “Agatha,” pleaded Mrs. Wylie, “don’t be headstrong and foolish.”

      “Oh, she won’t; I know she won’t,” said Henrietta coaxingly. “Will you, dear Agatha?”

      “You may do as you like, as far as I am concerned,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “But I hope you have more sense than to throw away your education for nothing.”

      “Your aunt is quite right,” said Mrs. Wylie. “And your Uncle John is very angry with you. He will never speak to you again if you quarrel with Miss Wilson.”

      “He is not angry,” said Henrietta, “but he is so anxious that you should get on well.”

      “He will naturally be disappointed if you persist in making a fool of yourself,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

      “All Miss Wilson wants is an apology for the dreadful things you wrote in her book,” said Mrs. Wylie. “You’ll apologize, dear, won’t you?”

      “Of course she will,” said Henrietta.

      “I think you had better,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

      “Perhaps I will,” said Agatha.

      “That’s my own darling,” said Mrs. Wylie, catching her hand.

      “And perhaps, again, I won’t.”

      “You will, dear,” urged Mrs. Wylie, trying to draw Agatha, who passively resisted, closer to her. “For my sake. To oblige your mother, Agatha. You won’t refuse me, dearest?”

      Agatha laughed indulgently at her parent, who had long ago worn out this form of appeal. Then she turned to Henrietta, and said, “How is your caro sposo? I think it was hard that I was not a bridesmaid.”

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