She was always sure of her welcome at Prospect House, and though she often assured herself that she could love no one but Francis Sales, that was no reason why others should not love her. From that point of view John Batty was a failure. He took her to a cricket match, but finding that she did not know the alphabet of the game, and was more interested in the spectators than in the players, he gave her up. He admired her appearance, but it did not make amends for ignorance of such a grossness; and, equally displeased with him, she returned home alone while he watched out the match.
The next day when she paid her usual Sunday visit, she ignored him pointedly and mentally crossed him off her list. Charles, ugly and odd, was infinitely more responsive, though he greeted her on this occasion with reproach.
“You went to a cricket match yesterday with John.”
“It was very boring and I got a headache. I shall never go again.”
“He said he wouldn’t take you.”
Henrietta smiled subtly, implying a good deal.
“I shouldn’t have thought,” Charles went on mournfully, “of suggesting such a thing.”
“My aunts were rather shocked. I went on the top of a tramcar with him.”
“But if you can go out with him, why shouldn’t you go out with me?”
“But where?” Henrietta questioned practically.