Joyce smiled.
“Oh no. Village mothers rather spoil their children. Didn’t you know that?”
Margot confessed that she didn’t. Joyce continued:
“But, of course, there is the reaction, when they are tired and fussed. That mother was fussed. I saw it at once. To come here this afternoon means more work to-night.”
“How is your headache?”
“Gone!”
“Really, you know, you’re rather an amazing person. But you hide your light. I don’t. Yours burns with a steadier beam.”
“A farthing dip,” said Joyce.
Stumps were to be drawn at seven promptly. As the minutes slipped by, Nether-Applewhite realised sorrowfully that Time had ranged himself with the enemy. Long ago, they had abandoned the hope of scoring runs. Each batsman was instructed to block the bowling, to hold the fort defensively. Five wickets had fallen for some sixty runs, and the best batsmen were out. Could the tail of the team wag on for twenty minutes? Hamlin put himself on to bowl lobs, twisting, curling, underhand balls. At Cambridge, long ago, the head of his College, the illustrious Master of Trinity, had made a jest upon Hamlin’s bowling. Presenting a prize set of books, he had remarked blandly, “Hamlin, you are the only undergraduate I know who has combined underhand practices with stainless integrity.”