“That child is going to worship Stella,” Michael thought.
“We’re hoping you will all be able to come and dine with us for Twelfth Night. My husband is so fond of keeping up old English festivals. Mr. Fane, you’ll still be at Hardingham, I hope, so that we may have the pleasure of seeing you as well?”
Michael said he was afraid he would have to be back in town.
“What absolute rot!” Stella cried. “Of course you’ll be here.”
But Michael insisted that he would be gone.
“They tell us you’ve been buying Herefords, Mr. Merivale. My husband was so much interested and is so much looking forward to seeing your stock; but at present he must not drive far. I’ve also heard of you from my youngest boy who went up to Christ Church last October year. He is very much excited to think that Hardingham is going to have such a famous—what is it called, Anne?—some kind of a bowler.”
“A googlie bowler, I expect you mean, mother,” said Lady Anne.
“Wasn’t he in the Eton eleven?” asked Alan.
“Well, no. Something happened to oust him at the last moment,” said Lady Stilton. “Possibly a superior player.”
“Oh, no, mother!” Lady Anne indignantly declared. “He would have played for certain against Harrow, if he hadn’t sprained his ankle at the nets the week before.”