“Of course, I’ve not much to offer you, you know,” said I, reduced to the coarse expedient. “Only that crack to cover, you know, and a pretty decent forward stroke. And, Grace, I’m developing ever such a prime late cut, and I’ve great hopes of my leg glance. When I get my eye in and the pace o’ the ground, I can turn length balls off my leg and middle.”
It gladdened me to think that she was softening visibly.
“I should like to see all these fine things for myself,” said she. “Must confess I haven’t seen ’em yet. I’ll come and watch you play these strokes against a bit of class bowling.”
All at once an idea hit me in the middle of the waistcoat.
“Grace,” said I breathlessly, palpitatingly, “s’pose you play me to-morrow under Rectory rules on the lawn at single wicket. Then you can test my cricket yourself, don’t you know. What awful good fun! Isn’t that a big idea?”
“Dimmy, if you don’t let me go, I’m certain that I shall be obliged to be rude,” said Grace, still reining herself in nobly.
“You’d see me at work against a bit o’ class bowling, you know,” said I.
“S’pose I should,” she said, pondering.
“And we might arrange it like this,” said I, “just to lend a little interest to the thing. If you beat me at single wicket on the Rectory lawn to-morrow, I’m plucked, wiped out, clean done. On the other hand, if I beat you, you undertake to give my claims very serious consideration.”
“Oh, anything, anything,” said Grace, “if you’ll just let me go. Dimmy, I’m certain that if I didn’t know otherwise, I should think you were a Harrow boy, your behaviour’s that abominably crude. Oh, I am in a wax!”