Reginald, who had been reposing at full length, gazing up speculatively among the wide broad-leaved branches, now turned suddenly on his elbow and brought himself vis-à-vis to Geoffrey with a stare of profound incredulity in his handsome dark eyes.
“The Phœnix Club against the world! The curate is a cricket-maniac of the first water. He has let me in for it—I’m a Phœnix,” concluded Geoffrey in an aggrieved tone. “I only trust we shall have an appreciative audience next Monday.”
“I hope you impressed upon the curate that there was not the smallest probability of my taking part in the match,” said Reginald imperiously.
“Au contraire; on the principle of the fox who has lost his tail, I informed him that you were well known at Lord’s and elsewhere as one of the best bowlers in the Service, and that he had only to enlist you among the eleven to ensure a signal victory; consequently he will take no refusal.”
“But I do not intend to play,” remarked Reginald firmly. “You forget that I have a stiff arm. My cricketing days are over; for the future, as far as the noble game is concerned, I intend to live on my reputation.”
“Your arm is as well as ever,” returned Geoffrey with calm conviction; “I would be very sorry to stand a buffet from it. That excuse shan’t serve you—and, by the same token, here’s the holy man coming up the avenue in a carriage and pair.”
“Nonsense, Geoffrey!” exclaimed Mrs. Mayhew, looking over her shoulder. “Alice”—in a tragic tone, and with a significant glance—“here are visitors.”
“So I see,” replied Alice with wonderful nonchalance. “I suppose I must go in, though, literally speaking, I am out. Who will go with me?” looking round. “Don’t all speak at once.”
“Not I, for one,” returned Mary promptly; “if I accompanied you with this red face”—fanning herself with a small branch of horse-chestnut leaves—“the people would think you had been beating me. Besides, I see too much of that old lady in her yellow bonnet as it is; she sits just in front of us in church. I believe she is the greatest gossip in the county, so be sure you don’t commit yourself beyond the weather, and the beauty and amiability of a certain Miss Ferrars who is staying with you.”
“I’ll go with you, my pretty Alice,” said Geoffrey, still, however, retaining his recumbent position, and making believe to play the guitar upon his tennis-bat, and fingering away with great fluency and skill.