The Disentanglers. Andrew Lang

screen, covered with engravings, which Merton had picked up for the sake of two or three old mezzotints, barbarously pasted on to this article of furniture by some ignorant owner.

      ‘Saved! we are saved! Hist, Julia, hither!’ said Miss Crofton in a stage whisper. And while Merton murmured ‘Highly unprofessional,’ the skirts of the two ladies vanished behind the screen.

      Miss Crofton had not played Lady Teazle for nothing.

      ‘Ask the gentlemen to come in,’ said Merton, when the boy returned.

      They entered: three fair young curates, nervous and inclined to giggle. Shades of difference of ecclesiastical opinion declared themselves in their hats, costume, and jewellery.

      ‘Be seated, gentlemen,’ said Merton, and they sat down on three chairs, in identical attitudes.

      ‘We hope,’ said the man on the left, ‘that we are not here inconveniently. We would have waited, but, you see, we have all come up for the match.’

      ‘How is it going?’ asked Merton anxiously.

      ‘Cambridge four wickets down for 115, but—’ and the young man stared, ‘it must be, it is Pussy Merton!’