"You needn't ask him your own," Ethel added, quite entering into it. "He knows them all."
"Oh, we'll have mine," said Forrester, who felt slightly ridiculous but much amused. "What was it for the 'Varsity—my first year?"
Kenyon had to think. That was three years ago, before he had known much about cricket; but he had read up that year's Lillywhite—he read as many old Lillywhites as he could borrow—and he answered in a few moments:
"Nineteen point seven."
"You have been getting it up!" cried Forrester.
Kenyon was beaming. "No, I haven't—honestly I haven't! Ask Ethel!"
"Oh, it's genuine enough," said Mr. Harwood; "it's his accomplishment—one to be proud of, isn't it? That'll do, Kenyon; good-night, both of you."
The door closed.
"He's one to be proud of," said Forrester pointedly, a vague indignation rising within him. "A delightful little chap, I call him! And he was right to a decimal. I never heard of such a fellow!"