“Well, you see, Dimmy, it’s like this, you see,” said Grace confidentially, but with her eye for ever wandering to the door. “Nothing under a county man’s their motto.”
“You mean it’s yours,” said I indignantly.
“Oh, I daresay,” said she. “If I’ve got to have somebody, I’ll have a county man or nobody.”
“You’d have the Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour, M.P.,” said I, to illustrate how monstrously untenable was the position she had taken up. “There’s never a girl that wouldn’t, if I know anything.”
“Balfour, Balfour,” said Grace. “Balfour. Oh, yes, you mean the golf Johnny. Golf! What next? Look here, Dimmy, do you take me for a muff? Why, I wouldn’t marry Willie Park.”
“No,” said I; “because you’re going to marry me.”
“Nothing under a county cricketer,” said she, with an air of finality. “Besides, the boys ’ud be just awful. Now then, Dimmy, out o’ the way. I’ve heard you out all fair and square, haven’t I?”
“Not by a lot,” said I. “My dear Grace, if you don’t be reasonable, I shall have to declaim. Don’t want to, I can assure you, but as a last resort I shall certainly be obliged to lift up my voice.”
“Angels and ministers of grace!” cried the unhappy young person of that name; “I’ve let you down ever so gently, and this is what I get for it. You’re ungrateful, Dimmy, that’s what you are! Now then, let me pass.”
“I’m not a county cricketer,” I began.