“Nellie,” I said, “do you consider that an encouraging remark to a young man whose happiness depends on his playing a straight bat and keeping his head cool?”
“Oh, Ted’s all right,” she returned with, I was pleased to observe, a touch of shame; “besides, what does it matter? It’s only a game.”
She might have had her answer from the group of Eton juvenility surrounding us, which broke into excited babble.
“Yes, you can.” “No, you can’t.” “You can’t be caught off your pads. Fat lot you know about cricket.” “Silly ass.” And so forth.
“But, Mr. Butterfield,” she said after a moment, “he will be so unbearable if he makes a lot of runs. He’s important enough already at being in the eleven.”
She stooped and spoke to young Eton on her right, who blushed at the distinction, but answered with bashful coldness.
“Besides,” she continued, “they say his average is thirty, and I’m sure I don’t care who wins.”
Luckily this treasonable utterance was unheard by the Eton boys, with whom sentiment and cricket hung in highly disproportionate balance. I was satisfied, at least, that if it came to the worst she would be sorry for Ted.
Now, Eton batted first, and there was little talk in our strongly prejudiced quarter. Ted Carmichael, I gathered from my neighbours, was to go in “third wicket down.” He had made a last visit—this time from a different entrance—but had avoided Nell, sitting next to Bassishaw instead, who had not tried to talk to him. Then he had disappeared.