“Nineteen from forty-one, quick!” she cried, without looking up. And as I answered, after due thought, “Twenty-three, I mean twenty-four; no, I mean twenty-two,” she lifted her head to say,—
“Thanks so much”; and added, “Hullo! it’s you, is it, Dimmy? Don’t mind me calling you Dimmy, do you? Rather a nice easy, slipping kind of a name is Dimmy, isn’t it, Dimmy? Besides, I can’t always be saying Mr., can I? as though I were a pro.”
“If you’ll allow me to call you Grace,” said I, “that’ll be all right.”
“You can call me anything you just please,” said she, “as long as it isn’t Laura. I hate Laura.”
“I have known some very pretty Lauras,” said I.
“Now look here, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace fiercely, “how on earth can I bring the first-class averages up to date if you keep talking? Stanley Jackson’s in a frightful tangle as it is. If you want a book, take it and cut, and close the door quietly.”
“Sorry,” said I, “horribly sorry. But may I help you?”
“Awfully glad if you would,” said she. “I shall never get done to-night. Oh, hang it! the wire from the Oval’s not here yet. Confound ’em!”
Approaching the table, I was now able to observe what her occupation was. She was busily engaged in deducing facts and figures from a litter of telegrams, and transferring them to formidable sheets of foolscap. My look was too perplexed to be ignored.
“Rather a good idea,” she explained. “As we can’t get an evening paper in these parts, anyhow, we arrange for ‘the close of the day’s play’ to be wired from the county grounds.”