AS bright a day as could be desired opened upon Richard Grigson's picnic. Determined that for one day at least his recluse guest should be drawn out of his shell, the hospitable master of the Manor House declared himself unequal to the task of making preparation for his visitors without John Tincroft's help. So the morning was occupied in setting out tables, forms, and chairs on the lawn, in daintily dressing up bowers, and, finally, in drawing up a programme for the evening's entertainment.
"Are you much of a cricketer, Tincroft?" demanded the squire.
"I detest the game," said John, heartily, remembering a stunning blow he had received from a cricket-ball on Bullingdon Green.
"That's capital. Then, while Tom and I are at it with the young fellows, you will have to take care of the ladies."
"Worse and worse!" exclaimed the guest, in sore dismay. "Your brother knows I am not a ladies' man."
"The more's the pity," said the remorseless squire; "and the more reason why you should begin to be."
"But, my dear friend—"
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Tincroft," put in Tom, who rather enjoyed the perplexity of his college friend. "There will be only a score or two of old women and a few pretty girls. And if you don't succeed in amusing them, they will amuse you, and themselves too, I daresay."
"If they can't do that, they will fare badly, I am afraid," said John, disconsolately, wishing himself for the time safe back in his Oxford rooms.
"We shall have the parson here to help you out," continued Mr. Grigson.