“ ‘Cos—oh, I don’t know. It’s not fair to tease me, Roland; tell me what happened.” They had passed into the hall, shutting the door behind them, and she pulled impatiently at his sleeve: “Come on, tell me.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I made forty-eight not out.”
“Oh, how ripping, how ripping! Come and tell me all about it,” and catching him by the hand she led him to the window-seat, from which, on that miserable afternoon, she had gazed for over an hour down the darkening street. “Come on, tell me everything.”
And though he at first endeavored to assume an attitude of superior indifference, he soon found himself telling the story of the match eagerly, dramatically. Reticence was well enough in the presence of the old and middle-aged—parents, relatives and schoolmasters—for all those who had put behind them the thrill of wakening confidence and were prepared to patronize it in others, from whose scrutiny the young had to protect their emotions with the shield of “it is no matter.” But April’s enthusiasm was fresh, unquestioning and freely given; he could not but respond to it.
She listened to the story with alert, admiring eyes. “And were they awfully pleased with you?” she said when he had finished.
“Well, it was pretty exciting.”
“And did Mr. Marston say anything to you?”
“Rather! Quite a lot. He was more excited than anyone.”
“Oh, yes, but I didn’t mean the cricket. Did he say anything about the business?”