She was soon up beside us again, a pretty healthy-looking anger seeming to emphasise her charms.
“267 for one, Grace,” said the scorer; “Halliday not out, 169. Oldknow, not out, 72. Oh, and another four; that makes Halliday 173. 270 up, boy.”
“Awfully obliged to you, old chap,” said Miss Grace politely, as she took the score-book from the Optimist. Her self-control really was remarkable, but then women do claim to have more of it than men.
“What sort of a time did they give you in there?” asked the Optimist. He always had a considerable temerity of his own. A thorough-going optimist needs it, of course.
“Pretty bad,” said Miss Grace, with a distinctly blasé air. “One girl said that Charlie must have an awful lot of enthusiasm, ’cause he kept running about as hard as he could just for fun, while everybody else was looking at him. Oh, some of ’em have a very pretty wit, I can tell you. But if Hickory’s idea of humour is 271 for one, I wish they’d try to be a bit serious sometimes, ’cause in my idea that sort o’ fun’s not funny at all.”
“’Tis for us, I think,” said I.
“Very low form of amusement,” said Grace judicially.
Here the game afforded us a new diversion. The dauntless Halliday, whom good fortune had now rendered absolutely reckless, lashed out for all he was worth at a ball much too short to drive. It went spinning up a dizzy height midway between mid-off and cover-point, in which positions the youthful T. S. M. and Carteret were fielding respectively.
“At last!” sighed poor Miss Grace.
She was just a little bit premature, however. Being between them, both men immediately started for the catch; then each observing the other coming, both stopped together and stood stock still, each politely saying “Your ball!” at the same moment, whilst the ball in question dropped harmlessly to earth. The great British Public rivalled Swift for pungency that minute. Poor Miss Grace, however, grew positively white.