Still, a prompting to speech invariably tied her tongue. She half turned, and stole an uneasy peep at the lad. He might be a year older than herself; he had a frank, sunburnt face, blue eyes, and almost white flaxen hair. She took heart of grace.
"I s'pose you often come here?" she ventured at last.
"You bet!" said the boy; but kept his eyes where they were on the pitch.
"Cricket's a lovely game ... don't you think so?"
Now he looked at her; but doubtfully, from the height of his fourteen male years; and did not reply.
"Do you play?"
This was a false move, she felt it at once. Her question seemed to offend him. "Should rather think I did!" he answered with a haughty air.
Weakly she hastened to retract her words. "Oh, I meant much—if you played much?"
"Comes to the same thing I guess," said the boy—he had not yet reached the age of obligatory politeness.
"It must be splendid"—here she faltered—"fun."