My tutor uttered this in a tragic tone.
“I don’t care what your pace is,” said I, carried away by her beautiful delivery, her perfect length, her “nip,” her “devil,” her break, and, above all, her parent’s curl in the air, which was an undoubted case of heredity, “but your bowling’s magnificent.”
“Oh, rot!” said Grace. “It ought to be faster.”
“It’s perfectly magnificent,” said I.
“Oh, rot!” said Grace again. “Do you think I don’t know when bowling’s real A 1? Too slow for a quick-footed bat. He’s got time to get out and hit me most horrid. Didn’t you see Archie lift me clean over that jolly old tent. Wasn’t it a smasher? I did feel prickly. I’d kept ’em so short, and as soon as I did pitch one up a bit that’s how he served me.”
“By Jove!” said I; “that’s what I’ll do. It’s not quite my game, you know, but I’m hanged if I don’t go out and hit you.”
“Oh, you will,” said the enemy, with a gleam in her eye. “We’ll see about that. Rectory rules, you know, and lots of fielders.”
Judged in this light, my new scheme was not quite so good as it at first appeared.
“We are a pair of jays, aren’t we,” said Grace, with amazing friendliness. “Here we’ve both gone and given ourselves away. You’ve shown me all about your stuff, and I’ve shown you all about mine.”
“Yes,” I said, “we’ve certainly exposed our hands. Rather a joke. But I never thought about it at all.”