“Why not?” said her contemporary, looking very much astonished.
There was nothing for it but to put into words the humiliating admission:
“I don’t know how to.”
“How funny! But we’ll soon teach you.”
Lydia resigned herself, and since she was no more deficient in physical courage than is any other imaginative egotist, who sets the importance of cutting a figure far above any incidental bodily risk that may be incurred in cutting in, she successfully avoided at least the appearance of running away from the ball.
The game, of course, was what was known to the Senthovens as “a rag” only, since with deficient numbers and a lack of implements, nothing so serious as a match could be contemplated. Consequently, Lydia presently found herself with Bob’s cricket bat tightly grasped in her unaccustomed hands.
She was not altogether displeased. It was only Olive who was bowling, and hitting the ball did not seem so very difficult. She might possibly distinguish herself even amongst these Philistines.
Lydia, in fact, was not above coveting the admiration of those whom she admittedly despised.
“Chuck you an easy one to start with,” shouted Olive, good-naturedly.
Lydia jerked up the bat, but heard no reassuring contact with the slow moving ball.