April will soon be here," said Miss Middleton, with a sigh of happiness.
"Bless it," I agreed. "My favourite month. Twelve," I added conversationally, "is my lucky number, and Thursday the day of the week on which I do least work. When next the twelfth of April falls on a Thursday, which may not be for centuries, look out. Something terrific will happen."
"It's about now that one begins to wonder if one is in form, or likely to be."
"Just about now," I agreed. "I always say that when the draw is announced for the semi-finals of the English Cup, in which, of course, I take not the slightest interest whatever, and in fact hardly know what teams are left in for it, though I must say I hope Southampton wins this year, because, after all, Fry did play for them once, but they'll have a bit of a job to beat the Wolves you know—and then there's Newcastle and Fulham after that, and of course, you can't be ..."
"I'm tired of that sentence," said Miss Middleton.
"So was I. I only wanted to make it clear that I have no use for these spectacular gladiatorial combats. Give me cricket, the game of——"
Miss Middleton did not appear to be listening.
"Do you bowl as fast and as good a length as you talk?" she asked thoughtfully.
"No. More swerve perhaps. And I bowl with my head a good deal."
"I see. Quite different. Well, then, will you coach me this spring? Do, there's a dear."