"You have," I said fervently. "It has grazed my face more than once."
"It is feeding," she said, "on your damask cheek. But I'm quite calm in spite of it."
"But then," I said, "you never knew Rowell."
"No. Who was he?"
"Rowell," I said, "was a schoolfellow of mine, and he had a father."
"Marvellous! And a mother too, I suppose."
"Yes," I said, "but she doesn't come into the story. Rowell's father had a passion, it appears, for riding, and one dreadful afternoon, when we were playing cricket, he rode into the cricket-field. He was wearing trousers, and his trousers had rucked up to his knees. It was a terrific sight, and, though we all pretended not to see and were very sorry for young Rowell, he felt the blow most keenly. I hope my hat won't be like Rowell's father's trousers."
"It isn't a bit like them yet," said Francesca.
R.C.L.