“No flowers at his funeral,” said the wit of Long-Baddeley.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” counselled the Parson.
Joel delivered the third ball. The unhappy George shut both eyes and flinched. A derisive roar went up, so did the bails. George gazed about him.
“You be out,” said the wicket-keeper.
“So I be. ’Tis sartin I didn’t know it. I can bowl a bit, but this ain’t cricket, ’tis murder.”
He vanished.
A few more runs were added to the score before the last wicket fell. Charles Parish achieved three singles and carried out his bat. The prayers of two righteous women had availed that much. Total score for Nether-Applewhite, two hundred and three. Long-Baddeley went in with one hundred and twelve runs to make in less than two hours. If they failed, and ten wickets fell, they would suffer ignominious defeat. Strategy demanded careful play. Fordingbridge congratulated the Squire upon his pitch, a batsman’s wicket, which accounted for big scores rare in village cricket.
Margot went back to Lady Pomfret and tea. She sat next to Joyce and talked to her. Joyce seemed preoccupied—not herself. Her interest in the game struck Margot as feigned. Her face, too, was paler than usual, faint shadows encircled her eyes. Was she sorry that Moxon had come back? It appeared, however, that Moxon’s visit was incidental, almost accidental. He had to leave on the Monday.
“Have you a headache?” asked Margot.
“Yes.”