“It was cricket.”
“What was?”
“My sickness.”
“How so? You were sick with cricket. What cricket? Come do not play any tosh with me.”
“It is no tosh” said Harold simpering a little with pride. “I am the first case. Of course between you and me it is somewhat tosh. Still they are writing a article on me called ‘Sport and Poetry: a Sycoanalsis of Genius’ to prove that I am suffering from a sort of squashed wish to play cricket just as Shakespere suffered because his wish to play tennis was squashed as he had not got the price.”
[109] “Oh I see” said Selia which she now knew whas a useful thing to say.
“Dont interrupt” said he giving himself one or two airs “it is all due to the squashed wish. It is quite true I have said to myself lately that now the summer is come it is a pity I am a rich man because I cannot now very well play with the boys as I did, and I dreamt a bit about the good old times, and thought of the ball I left in a box under my bed. Still, that was all it was and we ought to be glad it was no worse for it seems some men suffer from squashed wishes of a kind it would little befit me to tell you of.”
“Go on” said she “I’ve got you now. I read of it in the Sunday papers.”
“Indeed” quoth he “I did not know you were so advansed. It all goes to show how truly I chose you for mine own dearest Selia.”
[110] “Hity tity” quoth she somewhat nettled, “not so much stiffness even if you have a squashed wish. You need not be so uppish towards me.”