Mr. Talboys did not take delicate hints. He continued his visits three
times a week, and the coast was kept clear for him. On this Miss
Fountain proceeded to overt acts of war. She brought a champion on the
scene--a terrible champion--a champion so irresistible that I set any
woman down as a coward who lets him loose upon a sex already so
unequal to the contest as ours. What that champion's real name is I
have in vain endeavored to discover, but he is _called_
"Headache." When this terrible ally mingled in the game--on the
Talboys nights--dismay fell upon the wretched males that abode in and
visited the once cheerful, cozy Font Abbey. Messrs. Fountain and
Talboys put their heads together in grave, anxious consultations, and
Arthur vented a yell of remonstrance. He found the lady one afternoon
preparing indisposition. She was leaning languidly back, and the fire
was dying out of her eye, and the color out of her cheek, and the
blinds were drawn down. The poor boy burst in upon this prologue. "Oh,
Lucy," he cried, in piteous, foreboding tones, "don't go and have a
headache to-night. It was so jolly till you took to these
_stupid_ headaches."
"I am so sorry, Arthur," said Lucy, apologetically, but at bottom she
was inexorable. The disease reached its climax just before dinner. All
remedies failed, and there was nothing for it but to return to her own
room, and read the last new tale of domestic interest--and
principle--until sleep came to her relief.
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