He was piqued. He was accustomed to find himself popular, which, put into other words, meant courted, by women. From Claudia’s manner it was plain that the honour of becoming his instructress did not appeal to her. If she had not really been very pretty he would have turned away; as it was, he said in a tone of mock humility—
“What cruelty! Do you refuse even to throw me a few crumbs?”
“Oh dear no! Do they ever do any one any good? However, if they please you, and you find them about— May I ask for the mustard?”
Mrs Hilton’s voice was heard, addressing Claudia.
“Harry tells me you will like to have your morning to yourself, and I dare say you have letters to write, haven’t you, my dear? Anne will be wanting to hear how you got on yesterday. But after luncheon you must come for a drive, and later perhaps a little tennis? Or golf? Harry says that is what every one plays now, and I believe there are some links—isn’t that the name? or something.”
“Thank you,” said Claudia. “I only care about cricket.”
“Ah!” said Mrs Hilton, vaguely—“to look on at matches?”
“Oh no! To play. It seems to me the one game worth anything. But, then, I never tried football.”
She glanced at her hostess, delighted to see her startled face. But Harry, who was on the watch, broke in cheerfully.
“Cricket? Oh, of course. Heaps of girls play nowadays.” (He did not add that his opinion of their play was low.) “I’m afraid there’s nothing good to offer you, but Hurst is sending over an eleven to-morrow to play Thornbury.”