Lynborough's eyes grew thoughtful; he pursed up his lips. Miss Gilletson noticed that he became silent.
He could bear the suspense no longer. On a pretext of looking for more bottled beer, he rose and walked to the door of the tent.
Under the spreading tree the Marchesa lunched—not in isolation, not in gloom. She had company—and, even as he appeared, a merry peal of laughter was wafted by a favoring breeze across the field of battle. Stabb's ponderous figure, Roger Wilbraham's highly recognizable "blazer," told the truth plainly.
Lord Lynborough was not the only expert in the art of driving wedges!
"Well played, Helena!" he said under his breath.
The rest of the cricket match interested him very little. Successful beyond their expectations, Fillby won by five runs (Wilbraham not out thirty-seven)—but Lynborough's score did not swell the victorious total. In Easthorpe's second innings—which could not affect the result—Peters let him bowl, and he got young Woodwell's wicket. That was a distinction; yet, looking at the day as a whole, he had scored less than he expected.
Chapter Ten
IN THE LAST RESORT!
It will have been perceived by now that Lord Lynborough delighted in a fight. He revelled in being opposed; the man who withstood him to the face gave him such pleasure as to beget in his mind certainly gratitude, perhaps affection, or at least a predisposition thereto. There was nothing he liked so much as an even battle—unless, by chance, it were the scales seeming to incline a little against him. Then his spirits rose highest, his courage was most buoyant, his kindliness most sunny.