I knew in my soul what was going to happen. Ted’s nervousness at his first match, and the condescending interest of Miss Nellie Bassishaw, could only have one result; and I was so busy speculating on the mysteries of this dread fatality that hems us so remorselessly about, that I forgot the scene for a moment, and was startled back by the juvenile clamour. The inevitable had happened.
“Oh!” “Oh, I say!” “What a trimmer!” “Just on the bails!” “First ball!” “—broke from the off!” “It didn’t—it was a straight ball.” “Four for fifty-three.”
Ted was out, for a duck.
I glanced at the slender white figure trailing a fruitless bat towards the pavilion, and adjusted the knees of my trousers. I commented mentally on the pattern, and waited.
She did not speak, but absently pulled off a glove. The Carmichaels behind slowly resumed their talk, and the Eton boys, after marking their scoring cards, took up the current of the game. True liberals, with them the issue transcended the individual.
Still she did not speak, but folded and unfolded the gloves. I glanced up, and that eminently becoming hat did not seem the same, so inseparably had it been connected with the lurking ambuscade of eyes. Miss Nell was visibly shaken.
I leaned towards her.
“It’s only a game, Nellie——” I began. She interrupted me with a look.
“Please don’t be mean, Mr. Butterfield. I know what you think—you think it’s all my fault.”
I was silent for Ted’s sake, and she continued slowly: