Lady Pomfret observed mildly, “I take a little arnica and lint on to the battlefield.”
Margot said, as solemnly as Sir Geoffrey:
“This is a serious affair.”
She was assured of it. Any jesting upon the national game would be unseemly. It might be permissible to laugh at the cricketers, not at cricket. This from Lady Pomfret, with a sly twinkle in her eye. Twice she essayed to turn the ball of talk from the wickets. Twice the Squire returned that ball to his son—and the great game went on.
Was Margot bored?
No. Such talk in her own house amongst her own set might be deemed impossible. The first ball would have gone to the boundary and stayed there. But here, in this panelled dining-room, with the scent of new-mown hay stealing through the open windows, with the pitch itself to be seen from those windows, lying smooth as silver in the moonlight, what cleaner, better theme could be chosen? It smelt of the countryside. It presented humours delightfully Arcadian.
After dinner, Lionel proposed piquet. Given equal cards, Margot was incomparably the better player. Lady Pomfret, watching her noticed, that she played to the score, played, in short, to win. She noticed, too, that Lionel seemed to be studying his opponent rather than the game. He discarded carelessly; he forgot to score points. In her own mind smiling to herself, the mother perpetrated a mild pun. “He looks at her hands instead of his own.” Lionel, let us admit, was watching and waiting for another dynamic glance. He might have guessed that a second would not be forthcoming too soon. A second might have weakened the first. Nevertheless, what was carefully hidden from Lionel revealed itself unmistakably to Lady Pomfret. She beheld Truth before the nymph left her well.
“Margot means to have him.”
The Squire, dozing in his big armchair, sat bolt upright.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “It’s past eleven. To bed with you, boy! And take a pinch of bi-carbonate of potash.” He turned to his guest. “Nothing like it to clear the eye.”