“I’m so glad!” Miss Lucian ejaculated, with the utmost sincerity.
“I suppose it’s much more fun for him to be with other boys. Only I wish he was better at games.”
“Isn’t he good at them?”
“No, not a bit, and the odd thing is that he really wants to be, dreadfully—and yet it’s the work of the world to get him to try.”
“He’s so active—I can’t imagine Cecil not good at games.”
Rose shook her head. “He won’t try,” she repeated. “He can’t throw a ball properly, and when we were first at Squires, his grandfather tried to show him how, but Ces just wouldn’t learn. I think he didn’t like to be seen doing it the wrong way, and so he wouldn’t ever do it at all. But to hear him talk, you’d think he was mad about cricket or anything like that, and ready to practise his bowling all day.”
“Perhaps he’ll be good at football.”
“Perhaps,” said Rose doubtfully. “Jim was good at games.”
“Yes, I remember. Far better than Ford ever was, but then Ford has always cared more for other things. He isn’t really very strong, physically, is he?”
“He looks weedy enough,” said Mrs. Aviolet contemptuously. “He never offered to teach Ces anything about games, and he never plays any himself, except tennis, and he always looks superior when people go on about golf and things—and yet he sneers at poor little Ces for being no good. It was partly him, I think, that made Ces so tiresome about not trying to learn.”