"Charming," I said, with enthusiasm; while Billy, evidently feeling that the ground was dangerous, contented himself with a reflective smile.
We all four sauntered back to the small group of chairs under the elm trees, where York was explaining to Aunt Mary and Lady Baradell some of the finer beauties of the game.
"You'll stay to lunch, won't you, Mr. Logan?" said the former. "We always prepare for an indefinite number on cricket days."
"That sounds distinctly hopeful," I said, with a laugh, as Billy signified his pleasure in accepting. "It's just the sort of lunch that I shall be delighted to meet. Nothing makes one more hungry than watching other people exert themselves."
"What an excellent appetite you must enjoy, Mr. Northcote," put in Miss Vane mischievously.
Lady Baradell laughed dryly. "An excellent appetite," she repeated, "but tempered by a stern sense of self-control. That is why Mr. Northcote is so successful."
At this point, a sudden roar of "How's that?" proclaimed the downfall of another wicket. "That's nine," observed York gloomily. "Nine for ninety-eight, and only Sir Charles left."
"You might have expressed it a little more kindly," said Lady Baradell.
There was a general laugh, and while York was endeavouring to explain his meaning, we saw Baradell come out of the pavilion, looking mightily depressed. He walked to the wicket, took guard, as I believe it's called, and carefully marked the spot with one of the bails. Then he faced the bowler, played forward with belated dignity, and had his middle stump sent flying out of the ground.
"There, but for the grace of God," I remarked, "goes Mr. Stuart Northcote."