“And the match, Ted?” I asked, when he had sat down; “how do you feel?”—Ted was the youngest member of the Eton eleven, which was to meet Harrow in the annual match at Lord’s in a day or two.
A troubled look crossed his face.
“I don’t feel a bit up to it, Butterfield,” he replied. “I shall go and mess the confounded thing, I know I shall. A fellow who’s playing cricket shouldn’t have anything on his mind—that is——”
He paused, and flushed half angrily.
“Anything wrong?” I asked in an offhand tone.
“No,” he replied—an affirmative “no,”—“nothing that matters.”
“Only?” I prompted.
“Only this,” he answered with another flush, “that women oughtn’t to have anything to do with cricket.”
“From my experience,” I returned, “they are invariably proud to see their sons playing.”
“Sons!” he replied. “Oh, it isn’t that—I know my mother is all right. But it doesn’t matter—much,” he concluded, in a tone that was not intended as a hint to let the matter drop.