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The Disney Dream at Castaway Cay as seen while parasailing (Photo:
Erin Foster)
The Disney Wonder leaves Nassau in the twilight after a day in port.
(Photo: Laurel Stewart)
The Disney Magic pulls into New York City. (Photo: Erin Foster)
The Disney Dream decked out in its holiday finery (Photo: Erin Foster)

Northern European cruises can be a great way to beat the summer

heat. Here, the Magic visits Iceland. (Photo: Erin Foster)
Donald’s Pool on the Fantasy. You can see the AquaDuck waterslide
and Mickey’s Pool in the background. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)

The Magic’s Twist ‘n’ Spout waterslide (Photo: Len Testa)

The Fantasy’s dedicated pool just for teens at the Vibe club (Photo:
Erin Foster)
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The Fantasy’s AquaLab splash area (Photo: Ricky Brigante)
Guests on the Dream and Fantasy can enjoy Goofy-themed minigolf
on Deck 13. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)
The decor gets spooky on Halloween cruises. (Photo: Erin Foster)
The Fantasy’s adult pool at night (Photo: Laurel Stewart)

The Magic’s Quiet Cove Pool at night (Photo: Laurel Stewart)

Marvel Avengers Academy is found in the Oceaneer Club on the
Magic and the Wonder. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)

Star Wars cruises feature special guests from all corners of the
universe. (Photo: Jonathan Norberg)
Teens can hang out at Vibe. This is the Magic’s version. (Photo: Erin
Foster)
There’s a quiet room just for napping at It’s a Small World Nursery.
(Photo: Erin Foster)

Monsters Academy, the Monsters, Inc.–themed play area in the

Oceaneer Club on the Dream and the Fantasy (Photo: Laurel Stewart)
All four ships’ Oceaneer Clubs have Andy’s Room, a Toy Story–
themed play area. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)
The Walt Disney Theatre is the site for major events and stage
shows. (Photo: Jonathan Norberg)

Disney characters are available to greet guests during every cruise.

(Photo: Erin Foster)
The Race Kart Sundae at the Dream’s Vanellope’s Sweets &. Treats is
a dessert to remember. (Photo: Julia Mascardo)

Cabanas buffet, found on all four ships, is a great place for breakfast
and lunch. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)
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Tiana’s Place on the Wonder is the home of live jazz entertainment
during dinner. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)
Big-city vistas unfold behind the bar at Skyline Lounge on the
Dream. (Photo: Laurel Stewart)

The Magic’s Brazilian-themed restaurant, Carioca’s (Photo: Len Testa)

Adult-beverage tastings are available on all sailings. (Photo: Erin Foster)

The Fantasy’s Enchanted Garden restaurant has a lush atmosphere.

(Photo: Laurel Stewart)
Ooh La La champagne bar on the Fantasy is an elegant place to
relax. (Photo: Erin Foster)

All four ships have fitness centers equipped with a wide range of
cardio and weight machines. (Photo: Erin Foster)
Senses Spa offers a variety of massage options for singles and
couples. (Photo: Erin Foster)
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“You’re not likely to give anything heart disease in knocking tips off
your sticks, are you, Tommy?” said his sister persuasively.
Harrow liked not this at all. Therefore, when a serious flaw in
Gloucestershire’s line of argument occurred to T. S. M., his face lit up
with a sudden satisfaction.
“Perhaps Doctor William Gilbert Grace’ll tell us,” said he, dwelling
lovingly on every word, “If accordin’ to the blitherin’ rules a fellow’s
out every time he breaks a window, why she don’t go out herself
every time she breaks the cucumber frame.”
The Harrow captain ended amidst the approving shouts of
Middlesex.
“That’s amongst your timber, Willy,” said the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone,
executing a pas seul in the middle of the pitch.
“Oh, is it?” said the dauntless W. G. “You just hold on a bit. A
window is a window, and a cucumber frame’s a cucumber frame.”
“A Daniel come to judgment,” said Archie, otherwise A. E. Stoddart.
“Are there no windows in a cucumber frame then?”
“Why o’ course there’s not, Archie—I mean, Stoddy,” said W. G., in a
tone that might have been mistaken for intimidation.
“’May be wrong, you know,” said Archie; “but in my opinion panes of
glass constitute windows, if they’re fixed in a cucumber frame, just
as much as though they were in a church.”
“Stoddy, you’re talking through your hat,” said W. G. “A window’s a
thing to see out of, isn’t it?”
“S’pose it is,” said the Middlesex captain.
“Well, Stoddy,” said the triumphant W. G., “just you tell us how
cucumber frames can have windows if cucumbers can’t see.”
Great uproar from Gloucester, during which the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone
was seen to throw himself full length on the lawn, and roll about in
sheer gaieté de cœur. Even the dignified features of the Middlesex
captain were disturbed by a broad smile.
“Doctor,” he said, “they’ll have to make you a baronet yet. Oh, you
amusing person!”
“She may be a kind of conscientious objector, don’t you know?” cried
Carteret, the legal luminary, aiming ineffectual kicks at the rolling
curate. “Rather think you’d better give the doctor a certificate of
exemption, Stoddy, if Grace’ll swear solemnly on oath that she
conscientiously believes that cucumbers really cannot see by any
chance or possibility.”
The display of feeling that greeted this solution of the problem was
remarkable. The fat barrister was hailed as a legal genius.
“Well,” said Archie, screwing his features into a defiant solemnity, “if
the Old Man’ll swear by her beard that she conscientiously believes
that cucumbers really can’t see, we’ll insert a special clause into the
rules to provide for the cucumber frame.”
“But I can’t, you know, Archie,” said Miss Grace, “’cause I’ve got no
beard. But I do believe that cucumbers can’t see all the same
though.”
“This is serious,” said the unrelenting Archie. “The Old Man without
his beard is worse than Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark.”
“You’ll have to swear on something, Willy, that’s a cert.,” said Charlie,
“else we shan’t believe you.”
“Somebody fetch a Bible,” said Carteret. “Now then, Toddles, you
idle little beast, why don’t you go and fetch one of your collection.”
“Let her kiss my hat,” said the little curate, suddenly sitting upright
on the grass, with a look of utter holiness that would have made his
vicar glad. “As I’m a parson, it’ll be quite the truest administration of
an oath that’s possible. Every parson carries the whole contents of
the Scriptures in the lining, all hallowed by his intellect as well. You
know it, brethren, don’t you? Besides, it’ll save me the fag of going
to the house. Yes, by all means, let her kiss my hat.”
At this suggestion, the solemnity that seized us all was really
marvellous. We had gravity enough to equip a class for confirmation.
“Jimmy, here’s my hat!” said Toddles. “Isn’t it a blessing that you’re a
commissioner for oaths—horrid awful ones they are, you fat
blasphemer!”—this in an eloquent aside.
“Here, Grace, is his hat,” said Carteret.
Miss Grace took the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone’s not very particularly
ecclesiastical Harlequin cricket cap, and looked at it with some
dubiety.
“But this is not his hat, James,” said she. “This is his Harlequin.”
“All the same,” said Carteret judicially. “Embodies much of his best
thought. Look sharp and swear, Grace! It’s a great strain on us all, I
can assure you, Doctor, even though you mightn’t think it. These
moments of high emotion always are.”
Nobody laughed I am prepared to affirm. But before Miss Grace had
the oath administered to her, she looked at the witnesses with a
keenness that inconvenienced several of them rather considerably.
She then proceeded to thoughtfully scratch her chin.
“James,” said she, in a perplexed tone, “don’t quite know, you know;
not quite sure, you know, but—but I think you’re having me.”
“Rather think you’re having us,” said Archie. “Do be quick, Grace! As
James says, you don’t know how difficult it is for us. Look at poor
Toddles worrying the grass.”
“What an emotional little man it is!” said Captain George with rare
sympathy. “And what a ghastly thing it must be to have such a high-
strung nature.”
“I think you men are laughing at me,” said Miss Grace sternly.
“She cannot understand us,” said George. “How sad it is to be
misunderstood!”
The poor soldier ended by diving suddenly and ignominiously for his
handkerchief.
“You don’t take me in,” said Grace.
“She won’t kiss Toddles’ cap,” said T. S. M., with the brutality of his
time of life, “because she thinks if she holds out long enough she’ll
be able to kiss Toddles himself.”
“Tommy!” said his sister, “if you were not so young, I should think
you were rude.”
A second later she added most uncompromisingly, “And it’s all right.
I’m not going to be had. I’m not going to kiss Toddles’s cap, if it is a
Harlequin, and if he did make a hundred against Cambridge in it.
And I’m not going to take the oath, and I’m not going to play the
giddy ox at all. Archie, you’re out, under rule seven, and out you’ve
got to go. What’s your opinion, Biffin? Is Mr. Archie out, or is he
not?”
“Hout, miss,” said Biffin. “Hout, most certingly.”
“There you are!” said the Gloucestershire captain. “Next man get his
pads on. And if he’s not in in two minutes, his wicket’ll be claimed,
under rule forty-five.”
“Well, as the umpire is against me,” said Archie, “I suppose I shall
have to go. All the same, I think the M.C.C. ought to know about it.
These rules seem a bit unusual.”
“It’s ’cause you’re like the cucumbers, you know, Archie,” said W. G.
“It’s ’cause you can’t see.”
It is scarcely necessary to give a detailed narration of my first county
match. In a little over an hour the four Middlesex representatives
were disposed of for thirty-three. This was considered a small score
for the ground; but as both sides fielded, and very admirably too,
and hitting carried penalties with it, the Middlesex total calls for no
comment. Besides, the Gloucestershire captain was a remarkably
alert tactician, who knew the game of cricket perfectly well, and the
Rectory rules even better. Her placing of the field betrayed an
intimate acquaintance with the characteristics of each batsman; and
her slow bowling was perfect in length, and as full of deception as it
possibly could be. It might be true that Miss Grace had no beard;
but it did not prevent her representing W. G. in most essentials.
Indeed so much so, that when the youthful Harrow captain came in
second wicket, she was heard to remark, “Oh, he’s a young ’un, is
he! I think I can do for him.” And in addition to her other gifts, she
possessed that rare but invaluable quality in a captain, of practically
dictating the decisions of the umpire. There is no doubt that the
Gloucestershire captain was invariably conscientious in her appeals,
and the umpire equally so in his decisions. But their common faith in
one another was beautiful. If Miss Grace did make an appeal, the
excellent Biffin felt bound to endorse it. In his eyes Miss Grace’s
judgment had an absolute and sovereign rectitude. Old pro. and
county man as he was, Biffin had never an opinion of his own on
any point on which Miss Grace happened to already entertain one.
And this phenomenon in itself, I think, supplies a sufficient reason
why the fair sex has yet to be seen in serious cricket. It simply
would not do.
The fielding was excellent. Miss Grace’s eye was on it, and all of us,
whether we felt inclined that way or not, performed prodigies of
valour. And if the handsomest girl in the county brings off a
bewilderingly brilliant “caught and bowled” before one’s eyes, stops
the hottest cracks one hand, and fields and returns smashing hits all
in one action, any man, with the least pretensions to be a player, is
certain to be a bit above himself. Therefore do not be surprised that
my fielding in all positions was very good indeed, and won
encomiums from men who were accustomed to the best.
“Dimsdale,” said the little curate in a low but excruciatingly friendly
tone, “you stick to that pick-up and return, and you’ve got the least
little bit of a hundredth part of a look in. Keep as clean and keen as
that, and it’s just on the cards that you may be adopted as a
candidate.”
“Candidate?” said I.
“There was a man named Comfort came over here to lunch,” said
the little curate.
This sinister reference afflicted me with an overpowering
disinclination to pursue the subject farther.
Before Gloucestershire began their innings there was an interval for
tea. There is no doubt that this question of afternoon tea has
become quite a vexed one with the counties, and as Elphinstone—or
was it Carteret?—observed, there are counties in existence who
resolutely refuse to countenance the innovation. But Gloucestershire
was never one of these. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that when
Gloucestershire are fielding, though the reason is inexplicable of
course, there is more time consumed over the cup that cheers than
on any other occasion. Therefore in this instance it was quite an
expected thing that there should be a pretty considerable interval for
tea, and that Gloucester’s captain should lead the way to a fair white
table, seductively spread in the shade of the beeches and the
chestnuts in the coolest corner of the garden. The Rectory grounds
were of no remarkable extent, but harboured a charming wilderness
with two lawns therein beautifully turfed and mown and rolled for
cricket only, to break the monotony of shrubs, trees, and flowers,
growing at their own sweet will. If this was the favoured spot in
which this famous family had been reared, and this the air they
breathed, small wonder that they played cricket as naturally as Keats
wrote poetry. They couldn’t help it. My enthusiasm demanded an
outlet, and I told Miss Grace that hers was the most delightful place
I’d ever seen.
“Yes, isn’t it just stunning!” she cried, while her glowing look
announced that her chiefest pleasure was to sing its praises. “Every
morning when I look out of my window and hear the birds kicking
up a jolly noise in the ivy, and see the dew scooting off the wicket, it
seems to come to me all at once, as if I’d never thought of it before,
that I live at just the primest place that ever was.”
“Isn’t it pretty old?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” said she. “Been in our family——”
“Since Noah,” T. S. M. rudely interposed.
“Now then,” said Toddles, “don’t Harrow your sister’s feelings.”
“Been in our family,” Miss Grace continued, ignoring these cursory
remarks with fine dignity, “since—since—oh well a long time before
cricket was invented. Been some awful swells here, too, at one time
and another. Old William Lillywhite once came here to tea. Then one
or two other awful pots have lived here—Edmund Spenser, Sir Philip
Sydney, Joseph Addison, oh! and the girl who invented round arm
bowling.”
“And the girl who invented round arm bowlin’!” said the Harrow
captain. “Now tell us somethin’ else. The girl who invented round
arm bowlin’! Grace, when you get your jaw unshipped it’s a pleasure
to sit and listen.”
“Yes it was a girl,” said Miss Grace determinedly. “The Guv’nor’s got
a picture of her in his portfolio. Her name was Willes. What a good
sort she must have been! I just love that girl. I wish she was living
now, ’cause then I could jolly well go and hug her for inventing it.”
“Miss Willes knew a thing or two, however,” said the Harrow captain,
“and took care to die in time.”
This was thought to be so undeserved, that the youthful Tom was
instantly collared low by the little curate, with all the science, natural
and applied, of a three-quarter who had been capped for England
twice, and flung into a prickly bush of gooseberries.
“In my opinion,” the little parson hastened to remark, in an attempt
to divert the public mind from this painful incident, “your place has
only one fault, Grace. It’s just a bit too small.”
“Oh, no,” said Grace; “I wouldn’t have it different for worlds. I
wouldn’t even have a fly knocked off it. What there is is perfect.
Always reminds me of you, you know, Toddles—it’s little and good.”
“My dear Grace,” said the little curate, bowing over his cap; “my dear
Grace, even I, the meanest of your servants! But if you believe that
your harrowing youngest brother would benefit in manners by a
heavy fall upon his head, pray let me hear you say so.”
It was in this amiably Christian spirit that the representatives of
Gloucestershire and Middlesex came to the tea-table. W. G., of
course, presided and dispensed the tea to the manner born; and the
supplies of strawberries and cream were so prodigious, indeed
almost inexhaustible, that we were allowed to help ourselves. It may
not be generally known that strawberries and cream are as essential
to the cricket epicure as a hard wicket and a cloudless heaven.
There is something in their mere flavour that smacks of glorious
summer!
We had just begun our depredations, when the Rector appeared, in
a battered wideawake, with a long hoe in one hand, a cricket ball in
the other, and a particularly stern countenance behind his
perspiration.
“Why, that’s the ball we lost last week!” cried Miss Grace. “Oh, thank
you, father; it is very good of you to bring it to us. Quite new too.
Only been played with twice.”
“I am very gratified to find that you do recognise it, Laura,” said the
Rector. “When I do happen to find them amongst the ruins, they are
mostly made out to come there in the ordinary course of nature, like
the frost and rain; as no one has the least idea, as a rule, how they
could possibly have arrived by any other agency. Do you know that
you have smashed my best auratum lily in the most wanton and
outrageous manner?”
“Indeed I don’t, father,” said Miss Grace, with a look of trouble. “You
don’t think it could have been the hedgehog, do you, father?”
“No, I don’t think it could have been the hedgehog, nor the
peacock.”
“It might have been the mongoose, don’t you think?” Miss Grace
said; “they’re such awfully queer and ugly things.”
“No, I don’t think it was the mongoose,” said her parent, “queer and
ugly as they are. I think it was the cricket, and I propose to stop the
cricket’s little game. It’s shameful!”
“What, stop the cricket, sir!” His daughter’s tone was tragical.
“Yes, stop the cricket. I’ll have no more of it. It’s simply massacred
my tobacco plants. Rows upon rows I’ve tried to count and can’t,
that have got their tops off and are pounded into snuff.”
“I’m jolly sorry, father,” said Miss Grace. “But s’pose you have a cup
of tea. You look so hot and fagged. A cup of tea, with lots of cream
in, and a few of the best strawberries that you ever grew. Do you
see that we’re enjoying ’em a fortnight later than anybody else?”
“I also see,” said the Rector—not to be diverted by the tactful
feminine—“that my tigridias are broken into little pieces. The more I
think of what you’ve done, the more annoyed I feel!”
“I am afraid that it’s my hard hitting that’s done the mischief, sir,”
said the great batsman, who was going out with Stoddart, humbly.
“Oh, no, Archie,” said his sister, “nothing of the sort. Now I come to
think of it, I remember doing it myself. Look here, father, s’pose you
stop my ‘tin’ till the damage has been paid for.”
“That is a punishment that defeats itself,” the Rector said. “Last time
I took that course, these big brothers of yours, who are old enough
to know better, aided and abetted you to the extent of subscribing
twice the amount of pocket-money that you were losing. Why, you
were able to buy a new bat out of the profits of your crimes.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Grace quickly, “it was good old George who gave
me that. I can’t help old George being such a good sort, can I?”
“For valour, sir,” said the soldier, “always admire mettle, even in
criminals of the deepest dye.”
“You are all as bad as one another,” said the old gentleman, sitting
down to tea.
“Father,” said the hostess, “you are sitting next to Mr. Dimsdale,
who’ll soon be playing for his county. He’s got the loveliest crack to
cover that you ever saw.”
“Very glad to see you, sir,” said the old gentleman, “and I hope you’ll
excuse my display of heat. It takes a gardener to appreciate my
feelings. One cricket ball in one minute will find more repairs for
Nature than she can get through in a year.”
“I was thinking to myself, father, when you interrupted me,” said
Miss Grace, “that cricket nowadays is not what it was in your time.
Where are the great men of your day? There’s no Haywards and
Carpenters now; and there’s no Tarrants and Willshers. Where is the
man that can bowl like old John Jackson, where is the chap that can
hit to leg like old George Parr?”
It is a very painful thing for a determined admirer of Miss Grace’s sex
to set down in black and white, but I’m sure that, with one
exception, every man around that festive tea-table instinctively
distrusted Miss Grace’s extremely solemn countenance. The one
exception, incredible as it may seem, was Miss Grace’s honourable
and reverend papa.
“By Jove!” cried the best bowler in England, playing his sister’s
wicked, unscrupulous game, “Grace is right. There’s no stars like
there used to be in the Guv’nor’s time.”
“Yes, Charlie,” said Miss Grace, “I’m very sorry to say it, but cricket’s
going down. Tom Richardson, Johnny Briggs, Arthur Mold, and
Charlie Trentham are not fit to tie the boots of George Freeman,
Jimmy Shaw, David Buchanan, and ‘The Reverent.’ And the batting
too. The Old Man was in his prime in the seventies, Shrewsbury’s
getting on, and where are you to find a man with the style of Dicky
Daft? and even Toddles can’t cut like old Eph. Lockwood, and Archie
can’t lift ’em like Charlie Thornton. Cricket was cricket then. It wasn’t
so much like billiards. Batsmen had to face their luck on all sorts o’
pitches, whilst now they get their wickets laid and prepared just like
a jolly old foundation stone.”
It may be that the end justified the means. For certain it is that Miss
Grace’s parent forgot all about his mutilated garden. The old
gentleman sat and beamed. He began to sip his tea and talk of other
times.
“Ha!” he sighed, “I envy you young dogs. I should like to have a try
at those Australians!”
“Father’s used to curl in the air, you know,” said his daughter to me
proudly. “They’re very scarce. There’s no man now that can make
’em do it quite like the Guv’nor—curl one way and break another.
’Fairly gave the batsman fits. If Charlie could only make ’em do it,
he’d be the biggest terror that ever was. Don’t you think so, Father?”
“I wouldn’t like to say that,” said the modest old gentleman.
Nevertheless there was a tender approval in the eye with which he
regarded the very fine fast bowler, who was so busy with his
strawberries and cream.
“That’s right, sir,” said that young man quite anxiously; “for you
really must not encourage Grace in this curl in the air sort o’ rot, you
know. Whenever she gets me to herself, she whips a ball out of her
pocket and says, ‘Now then, Charlie, let’s have you at it,’ measures
twenty-two yards, and keeps me trying to find out those patent
swerves of yours for about two hours at a stretch.”
“Better be doing that than smoking horrible tobacco, or practising
the push stroke, or reading for the law in a pink paper that’s got the
starting prices in it,” said his sister sternly.
“But I say that the Guv’nor’s leg curl can’t be learnt,” said Charlie. “I
say it has to come by nature.”
“Well,” said his sister, “I don’t care, Charlie, how you have it come,
whether by nature, Pickford’s, or the Parcel Post. But you’ve got to
get it, Charlie. Just think of the value of it to England and Middlesex.
Why, they’d be playing you to leg and have their middles telescoped
like fun wouldn’t they, Father?”
“I think that’s how I used to effect ’em occasionally,” said the old
gentleman, with a twinkle. “It used to be said that the All England
Eleven once called a meeting to discuss how these curly twisters
should be played. Some of ’em would lie awake at nights trying to
find out the scientific way. But I don’t think they ever did. Once I
remember bowling Tom Hayward second ball both innings in one
match, and it made poor Tom so sick that they had to put leeches on
his head.”
“Oh, Mr. Dimsdale,” sighed Miss Grace, “I should like you to have
seen old father in his day. That’s why he’s a D.D., you know.
Cambridge gave it him for his bowling.”
“Really!” I said. “Is that a fact?”
“Well,” said the Rector, and I never saw a man look more
mischievous, “I don’t quite think it was for my learning.”
“Toddles,” said Archie, “Oxford’ll elect you to a fellowship if you did
get a Fourth in Mods.”
“Laura,” said the Rector, “let me assure you again that I don’t think
this curl in the air can be acquired. Therefore, I should recommend
you to spend your spare time in more profitable employments. For
instance, playing with a perfectly straight bat, or weeding the
garden, or trying to read Horace without a crib.”
This was Charlie’s opportunity. For a moment that boisterous person
seemed mightily inconvenienced by the Homeric laughter that shook
his being.
“What price Grace,” he cried, “spending her spare time in reading
Horace? Why, she only knows of one chap called Horace in the
reading line, which his other name is Hutchinson.”
“Oh, don’t I though?” said Grace. “I know the Horace father means.
A fat old bounder who was always thirsty; awful fond of wine, he
was, awful fond. Don’t think he was ever in condition. As for his jaw,
it was something frightful. Why, I’ve got a very cultivated literary
taste, haven’t I, Father?”
“Very,” said her parent gently.
“Oh, yes, I can quite believe that the Guv’nor strokes your fur a bit,”
said Archie, whose insight into the human heart was pitiless, “when
he has you in on Saturday evenings and wants to persuade you to
fish him a few quotations out of Bohn. We know where all the
embroidery comes from, don’t we, Toddles?”
“It’s not Bohn, anyhow,” said Miss Grace, “’cause the binding’s better.
Hullo, what’s up with Toddles! Why, he’s choking!”
It required the undivided energies of two strong men to beat the
little curate on the back ere he was restored to a sense of his
responsibilities.
“I think,” said the old gentleman, with sly enjoyment, “that these
revelations are hardly suited to the young miss. Feminine ideals, you
know.”
At this Miss Grace looked keenly about her on every side. “It’s all
serene, Father,” said she. “There’s none o’ the maids about. Don’t
think they can possibly hear us.”
“Laura,” said the old gentleman, hiding the most significant part of
his face in a tea-cup, “I want you to confine yourself in your spare
time to learning to play with a perfectly straight bat. The way in
which you pull everything blindly to leg is a reproach, a disgrace to
the family. You boys ought to be really ashamed of it, and it grieves
me to think that Laura’s self-respect allows her to do it. I’m
wondering if we had Arthur Shrewsbury down for a bit whether he’d
be able to do anything for her.”
“It’s her sex asserting itself,” said Archie. (It should be said at once
that Archie has such an amount of psychology and kindred things in
his mind that he has written a novel for the Keynotes Series.) “The
eternal feminine is not to be repressed. There’s two things about
Grace’s cricket that betrays the woman. One, as the Guv’nor has
remarked, is her deplorable habit of playing everything with a cross
bat; the other is a well-defined tendency to dispute the umpire’s
decisions. Woman-like, she declines to recognise a mere man’s
authority. If it were not for the fear that she’d have been defying
Bob Thoms or some other potentate, and refusing to go out when
he gave her ‘petticoat before,’ we might have played her for
Middlesex, for her bowling and fielding all through the season.”
“It’s all jolly fine you men ragging me about my cross bat,” said poor
Miss Grace, whose face had the tawny red of a tea-rose. “But if I
was Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or Archie Trentham, or one of those big
pots, people ’ud say it was a marvellous hook stroke, and the fruit of
my wonderful original method.”
“Yes,” said her enemy of Harrow, “if you were Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or
Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, your picture’d be in the
Jubilee Cricket Book, with you in the act of droppin’ ’em into the
cucumber frame. But as you don’t happen to be Ranjy, or Clem Hill,
or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, but Miss Laura Mary,
the cheekiest girl that ever put her hair in pins, your cross bat is
beastly disgusting, and cruel rough on your people. And if your
father don’t send for Shrewsbury to lick you into shape, we will,
because you’ve got to be broke in, that’s certin. Whenever I think
about your battin’, Laura,—it’s an insult to the Old Man to call you
Grace,—it makes me downright sick.”
“Gentlemen,” said the little parson, rising at this point in the
peroration and speaking in his most clergymanly intonation, “must
we not do our painful duty?”
Whereon five men stood up as one, suddenly took young Tom from
behind, and despite his struggles, bore him bodily to the biggest and
prickliest gooseberry bush in the vicinity. They deposited him on the
top of it, with what appeared unnecessary violence, and when he
wriggled himself off, he brought away a rather uncomfortable
quantity of needles in his epidermis.
 CHAPTER XIII
A Case of Heredity
WHEN peace had been restored, Captain George remarked,
“Apropos of the Guv’nor’s curl in the air, it’s very singular and a bit
annoying too that Grace is the only one of us who has developed it.
There’s no doubt that she’s got it. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“Undoubtedly,” said the old gentleman. “And I think it is because she
delivers the ball with a stiff arm, just as I used to do. It’s the
clearest case of heredity that I ever saw.”
“If Grace was not a girl,” said Archie, “she’d be the best bowler in
England to-day. That curl from leg of hers, when it occasionally
takes it into its head to come back from the off after it’s pitched
requires more watching than anything I know.”
“Grace, will you qualify for Kent?” said Carteret.
Miss Grace, although somewhat embarrassed by the praises of these
great men, which caused her to blush most adorably, was supremely
happy. It was honey to her to be considered on her merits as a
cricketer.
“I wish this jolly leg curl was Charlie’s instead of mine,” said its
flattered owner in the most unselfish manner. “What use is it to me?
If Charlie’d got it now, Stoddy’d be obliged to take him with him in
the autumn. Or even if that young cub of a Tommy had got it, it
might get him in the county.”
“If the young cub in question can’t get in the county without the
help of a girl,” said the Harrow captain, sore but dignified, “he’d
prefer to stop outside, thank you.”
“Boy,” said the little parson, “you must learn to respect your elders—
sisters especially.”
“But she’s my twin,” said T. S. M.
“She’s older than you, though, ever so much older,” said the oracular
Archie. “Girls don’t begin to grow young until they become women.
Only wait a bit; there’ll come a time when you’ll find yourself years
older than Grace is.”
“But she’s so beas’ly patronisin’,” said poor T. S. M. “She might be a
howlin’ authority on the game, a reg’ler A. G. Steel, or a chap like
that, instead of a beas’ly girl with the cheek of a female journalist.
I’ll admit she’s got a bit o’ book knowledge,—Badminton, and all that
—and can talk like a phonograph, but she’s not going to play the
apostle with me, not if I know it. Her airs are alarmin’. Don’t know
why you men let her rag you, and fag you, and cheek you, and order
you about the show accordin’ to her imperial pleasure. I’m goin’ to
kick. To me that sort o’ thing ain’t at all amusin’. Why at Harrow——”
“Yes, at Harrow,” said the little parson eagerly.
“Yes, at Harrow,” said Archie, with a burning eye.
“Yes, at Harrow,” said every individual person at the table in the
proper order in which he was seated, with strained intensity.
“I can see you’re all under her thumb,” said the unhappy T. S. M.,
reddening to the roots of his hair. “She just ruffles it over everybody,
from the Guv’nor to the gardener’s boy. And her ways are simply
howlin’. I brought Billy Jowett, who’s in the same game as me at Har
—, yes, in the same game as me, down here for a week end. And
this nice brought-up sister o’ mine says to him after he’d been here
about a day, ‘I say, Mister Jowett, isn’t it exhaustin’ to have such
brilliant gifts? Your mama is so proud of you, I’m sure, and how
brave of her to let you come so far from home without your
governess!’ Well, that riled Billy so cruel that he just cut back by the
next train, and he says that if I ever ask him to come down again he
shall take it as an insult.”
“That’s luck,” said the unabashed Miss Grace. “The coxey little boy;
and he was such an awfully gifted being! Talked of George Eliot as
though he knew him well. Then he got discussing ‘The Historical
Continuity of the Church of England’ with the Guv’nor, and then ‘The
Inwardness of the Harmsworth Magazine,’ and housetop talk o’ that
sort. Then he got arguing with the Guv’nor—yes, arguing, Archie,
and once I’m certain that he contradicted the Guv’nor flat. It just
made my blood boil; and when he said, Archie, ‘that he had been
told that you batted rather well,’ I thought it somewhere about time
that he had a hint.”
“He’s the smartest classic in the school, anyhow,” said T. S. M. hotly.
“Greek and Latin prizeman, and all that, and he’s going up to Trinity
next term, and he’s certain to get a fellowship, besides a double
blue.”
“He’s big enough bore to get a deanery,” was Miss Grace’s swift
answer.
I grieve to say that the whole table, her reverend papa included,
seemed really charmed with this audacious speech.
“Well,” said Harrow’s captain, feeling that the day was going against
him, and therefore losing his head a little, and mixing his metaphors
horribly, “you can curl back into your shell. Your airs won’t wash with
me. And don’t put side on with a pitchfork either, for when all’s said,
you are barely an hour older than I am.”
 “‘Hooray! Isn’t A. J. just a darling?’”
Willow, the King.] [Page 203.

“Yes, dear Tommy,” said his sister; “but then, you see, I’ve not been
to Harrow.”
The Fates, however, were now kind enough to play into the hands of
T. S. M. It is almost certain else that his mutilated corpse had been
carried from this fatal field. A maid-servant issued from the house
with a pink slip in her hand. She delivered it into the care of the
Harrow captain.
“The boy’s waiting, sir,” said she.
Tom tore off the wrapper. Thereon he was seen to grow noticeably
pale, while he allowed the telegram to flutter from his fingers.
“I say!” he gasped.
Miss Grace pounced on the pink paper like a hawk, and read out its
contents in a voice thrilling with excitement: “You are selected for
Kent match, Monday, Tonbridge. Reply paid, Webbe. Hooray!
Hooray! Isn’t A. J. just a darling!”
The exuberant young person waved the telegram about in such a
frantic manner that she overturned the teapot into the lap of
Carteret.
“Terribly sorry, James,” she said breathlessly; “terribly sorry. But lend
me a pencil, somebody, and, Jane, just see that that boy don’t go.”
A pencil being promptly forthcoming, Miss Grace wrote in a hasty but
firm hand on the slip attached: “Shall be very glad to play,
Tonbridge, Monday. T. Trentham.”
“There you are, Jane,” said she; “give that to the boy,” and fishing
half-a-crown from her purse, added, “and this is for him, too.”
“Laura, what unwarrantable extravagance,” said the Rector, looking
so happy that he could scarcely sit still.
“It ’ud be five shillings,” said Miss Grace, “only I want some new
gloves for Tonbridge on Monday. But isn’t it glorious! Isn’t it
tremendous of A. J.! Tommy, I’m so delighted! And didn’t I say from
the first that they wouldn’t pass you over? And you will take me to
Tonbridge, won’t you, Father?”
“I think you are more likely to take me,” said that indulgent man.
The whole-hearted joy of them all was infectious. I might have a dim
idea that my own county had yet to behave in a similar way towards
one whom I held to be peculiarly worthy, but, none the less, I bore
my part in the back thumpings as gallantly as any. The recipient of
these congratulations, talkative to the point of calamity the moment
before, was now in such a state of miserable happiness that he
could not find a word to say. With his eyes fixed modestly on his
plate he was white one minute, and red the next. His sister, however
determined a foe she might be, was most unmistakably delighted.
After inserting a strawberry into Elphinstone’s shirt-collar, not
necessarily as a cause of offence, but rather as a guarantee of her
excessive happiness, she ended by falling on her father bodily, and
publicly hugging him.
“Pater,” she said, “you don’t mind, do you? It is so horribly jolly nice
to feel that Tommy’s playing on Monday, isn’t it?”
About five minutes later the Harrow captain became the victim of an
idea.
“’Ought to reply now, I suppose,” he said nervously. “’Wonder if the
boy’s gone. Would you say you’d play? What do you say, sir? What
do you say, Grace? How would you word it? Don’t quite know what
to do. Somehow feel I’m not altogether fit.”
“It’s all right, Tommy; I have replied,” said his sister. “You’re playing
on Monday.”
“It’s beas’ly good of you, old girl,” said her youngest brother.
“What price Harrow’s principles now?” cried Carteret. “Here is the
man who was not going to let his sister play the apostle with him.
Wasn’t he going to let her see!”
“Shut up, James,” said Miss Grace, “else you’ll get some more tea on
your togs. Soon as a fellow plays for the county he gets sense
knocked into him, and grows into a man quite suddenly. Now,
Tommy, mind no more smoking this week; early to bed, you know,
not a minute after ten; nice long morning walks, and, perhaps, a
Turkish bath on Saturday. We must have you like—like a jumping
cracker for Monday.”
“Mayn’t I smoke cigarettes?” said the meek Tommy.
“No, not one,” said his tyrannical sister. “And I shall put you on
oysters and beef-tea. Oh, and cod-liver oil.”
“Cod-liver oil?” said the prospective county man. He made a
grimace.
“Certainly,” said Miss Grace. “Archie and Charlie take a tablespoonful
a day, don’t you? I simply insist on it, don’t I?”
“Lord, yes!” groaned those great men.
“S’pose I’ve got to have it, then,” said the Harrow captain humbly.
From this it should be seen that county cricket is not quite all beer
and skittles. It has its drawbacks.
The enthusiasm had scarcely had time to die when a solitary figure,
in a grey flannel suit, came through the laurel bushes and over the
lawn to the tumultuous tea-table. It was the Optimist.
“Delighted to see you, my boy,” said the Rector. “Sit down, and get
at those strawberries.”
“One lump or two, Cheery?” said the brisk Grace. “And Tommy’s
playing against Kent on Monday. Isn’t it scrumptious! Toddles, send
the cream along, will you when you’ve taken your blazer out of it?
But isn’t it prime about Tommy?”
“Your fist, old man!” demanded the Optimist. He wrung T. S. M.’s
hand in such a way that it was lucky it was not his bowling arm.
The Optimist, best of good fellows as he was, might have sought for
years to find the highway into Miss Grace’s heart, and yet not have
so nearly found it as he did just then. For his behaviour clearly said,
that if he was not in his own person a great cricketer, none the less
he had a true feeling for the game.
As the champion county had made a moderate score, and
Gloucestershire felt that they therefore could afford to be generous,
Brightside was allowed to bat for Middlesex. Unfortunately, his
efforts in the batting line were of very little service to his side. When
the poor chap took his guard, and then looked up and saw Miss
Grace preparing to deliver, he couldn’t have been in a greater funk
had she been Spofforth himself. One ball transacted his business. It
had the paternal curl, and also “did a bit” as well.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the tender-hearted bowler, as the poor
Optimist’s wicket shed a silent bail; “but it was a good ’un, wasn’t it?
The Old Man’s analysis is three wickets for fourteen. Not so dusty, is
it, for a veteran?”
“Are you counting that broken window a wicket?” asked the victim of
Law Seven, Rectory Rules.
“What do you think?” said W. G. “If I chuck you a ’tice, and it leads
you to take liberties, what do you think, Archie?”
“Why, I think your cheek’s increasing,” said the emphatic Archie.
Grace went in first for Gloucestershire, of course.
“One leg, Biffin, if you please,” said she, bending her brown face
over her bat handle. “Toddles, will you have the goodness to come
from behind the bowler’s arm? Oh, and Biffin, you must not forget
that according to Rule Nine anything above medium is a no-ball. Fast
bowling’s dangerous here, you know, tempts one to hit so hard. Do
you hear that, Charlie?—nothing above medium.”
The best bowler in England was cruel enough to drop in one of his
celebrated “yorkers” to his sister first ball. Even with the most
accomplished defensive batswomen a yorker is always liable to have
a fatal termination. It had in this instance. Crash went Miss Grace’s
middle.
“No-ball!” yelled the umpire, just in the nick of time.
“Got that no-ball down to Gloucester, Father?” cried the
imperturbable Grace to her parent who sat scoring under a willow
tree, a safe distance away. “Oh, and Biffin, I think I’d better have
two leg, I was bit inside that one, wasn’t I?” The way in which she
lifted a bail and scraped the crease was W.G. to the manner born.
“And, Toddles, can’t you keep from dancing behind the bowler’s
arm?”
If the best bowler in England thought he was going to catch his
sister napping a second time he was the victim of a grievous error.
His yorkers had no terrors for her now. She got her bat down to
every individual one, and had the temerity to block one so hard that
she scored a single off it. She played a watchful and not altogether
unscientific game, and despite the fact that three men were on the
onside watching the case on behalf of the cucumber frame, she
caused the bowling to be changed four times, and stayed in fifty
minutes for sixteen. And the manner of her dismissal was decidedly
unlucky. The gallant Artilleryman going on with his lobs as a last
resource, his sister was no longer able to restrain her ardent soul:
she got in a really fine straight in the manner of her brother Archie,
whereon running in hard from the library windows, the little parson
effected one of the finest catches ever witnessed on the Rectory
lawn.
Contrary to expectation the finish was desperately close. Through
my ignorance of the ground I had the misfortune to be run out for a
duck. Toddles, who succeeded, shaped beautifully, his wrist work
and knife-like cutting being a theme for general admiration. After
contributing three singles and a two, however, he lost his wicket in a
somewhat humiliating way. Grace, fielding mid-off, had by no means
forgiven him for his wonderful catch, and was evidently, to judge by
her concentrated look, biding her time. Presently, the little parson
smashed one right at her all along the carpet at a great pace. Mid-
off’s disturbed expression, and the quick way in which she turned
round apparently to pursue, clearly indicated that she had been
guilty of misfielding, and had allowed the ball to pass her. The
unsuspecting Toddles started for a run, whereon the fieldsman like a
flash of light produced the missing ball from the infinite recesses of
her skirts, returned it hard and true, and the wicket-keeper had the
little parson out by about two yards.
“I’ll teach you to refuse Halliday, and then take me, when you
wouldn’t a’ got to mine at all if you hadn’t been such a quick-footed
little brute,” cried Mid-off in triumph.
Although it was one of the most flagrant cases of deception that
either Middlesex or Gloucestershire had ever seen practised, the
unfortunate Toddles had undoubtedly received his quietus.
“Just the sort o’ thing a girl would do,” said T. S. M. “Beas’ly bad
form, I call it.”
“Let this be a warning to you, Tommy,” said Miss Grace, who actually
seemed to be exulting in her act. “As you’re so young, Kent’s certain
to try it on Monday. Toddles will, for one.”
“It’s worse than the Cambridge no-ball dodge,” said Carteret, coming
in last man to bat.
The finish proved exciting to a degree. Carteret was a first-class bat
in every way, who had a fine eye, and came down very hard on the
ball. Despite the correctness of the fielding, and the fine length that
Charlie kept, Gloucestershire won by one wicket.
As W. G. led the victorious eleven back to the remains of the
strawberries and cream, our representative understood the
Champion to remark:—
“I’ve said all along that this very toney, classy Middlesex team had
only got to be tackled fair for the stitches to come undone, and the
sawdust to begin to trickle. Two lickings in succession’s pretty thick,
ain’t it, Stoddy? You two’ll stay to dinner of course?”
“Charmed,” said I promptly. And then in a judicious aside to George,
“But what price togs? Riding breeches and a flannel shirt, don’t you
know!”
“Don’t fag with dressing when we’re on our own, do we boys,” said
the consummate Grace, who had an alertness that was as perfect as
her frankness. “The Guv’nor’s good as gold, especially in summer.
It’s only when the Bishop brings his Mary, or there’s a bit of a slap-
up dinner party on, which I sometimes let the Guv’nor have if his
behaviour’s been very beautiful, well then, of course, we have to
buck up a bit, and try to look pretty.”
“Ever so easy in your case,” said I.
Alas! it fell on perfectly deaf ears.
 CHAPTER XIV
In which I am more Sinned against
than Sinning
WHILE eight men were scrubbing themselves in the bath-room prior
to the dinner bell, their behaviour, as is only too usual when eight
men are trying to do the same thing at the same time, was not too
lady-like. Their talk also was breezy and of a rather penetrating kind.
“If Brightside’s not here to-night with intent,” said Elphinstone, in his
slow, clerical sing-song, in the middle of a free fight round a bath-
towel, “you can call me American. I’ve been looking at Brightside,
and I’m certain that he meditates making a silly ass of himself.”
“Do you, Brightside?” I cried, with deep feeling.
“Oh, damn,” said the Optimist coarsely. But his complexion was
becoming a fine tawny.
“He’s going through with it to-night though, if it kills him,” said the
wicked little parson.
“More likely to kill her,” said Carteret.
“Matter of opinion,” said the little parson: “but one can’t help
respecting Brightside. No earthly and all that, he knows, but I’m
certain that he’s going to cause Grace to become a sister to him.”
“So there!” said Carteret.
“We call ’em the Bougheys, you know,” said the wicked little parson,
in a disgustingly confidential tone, “in affectionate remembrance of
that noble idiot over the way. ’Comes here every fortnight now to
get Grace’s opinion as to what marl he should put on his wickets in
the winter, and whether in her opinion grass seeds are superior to
new turf, or vice versa. She’s a sister to him, his step-sister, his
sister-in-law, his deceased wife’s sister, his aunt, his grandmother,
his niece, his cousin, his second cousin; and our dear, delightful
Grace now spends her time in inventing new relationships, as she’s
quite used up the Prayer-book. Last time he came she promised to
be his Prussian cousin. I don’t doubt that in the end she’ll be his
murderess. Isn’t it a pity that the English aristocracy has no sense of
humour? And from what that man Comfort told me at lunch, I rather
fear that Dimsdale is also to have an attack of incipient dam
silliness.”
“It’s coming; I can feel it,” said I, with brazen effrontery. “Brown
holland’s kept me awake all night; and the encouraging part of it is, I
feel as though I shall never sleep again until I’ve converted myself
into a form of common amusement.”
“Well, here’s my sympathy, old man,” said Charlie, hurling a missile
at me, which I mistakenly thought was nothing more serious than a
loofah. But the moment it crashed against my cheek-bone I suddenly
arrived at the conclusion that there must be a cake of brown
Windsor carefully wrapped inside it.
It is rather a pity that I don’t wield the pen of Truthful James,
considering what transpired when I mistakenly attempted to discuss
the matter with the man who had thrown the soap. But as Charlie
had the brute force of a bullock, and didn’t know his strength, in less
than a minute I was very sorry that I had chosen to grapple with
him. Had it not been that the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone, who was really a
most intrepid little man, used his feet and elbows freely, at the
crucial moment, on the best bowler in England’s sacred person, I
should have been killed undoubtedly.
When the interested bystanders had repaired these breaches of the
peace by a liberal application of cold water and hard epithets, the
bell summoned us to dinner. We were in no position to obey it,
however, until I had borrowed a collar from Charlie to replace the
one that he had torn in two, and until my brave friend, the little
parson, had changed his shirt, as the one that now adorned him had
been exceeding mutilated. Charlie himself, who was as hard as steel,
and wiry as a mustang, was much as he was before this lamentable
affair, except that he was now breathing through his mouth instead
of through his nose.
“There’s really no hurry, Toddles, you know,” said Archie, while that
ornament of the Church sponged the blood from his teeth. “It’s only
ten minutes since the bell went, and if there’s one thing the Guv
does thoroughly enjoy, it is for a curate to come between him and
his dinner. And it would make us all so sorrowful if you were to
forfeit his high opinion, for we all feel that you will never be able to
impose on anybody else. Besides, you won’t be in time to say the
grace, you bloody little ruffian!”
Despite this prediction, however, the Rector continued to be courtesy
itself. No doubt this was his habit, as he certainly possessed some
magnetic quality that caused his high-spirited family to regard him
with affectionate awe. Miss Grace, herself the highest spirited of
them all, might be said to worship him. In the words of Archie, “The
Guv’nor might be the inventor of cricket,” such was the estimation in
which his daughter held him. As for that adorable person, she was
apparently as much at home in the dining-room as in the tented
field. She could play the hostess as easily as she could play the
game. She indicated the course of the talk with a brisk tact that
would have commended itself to the professional hostesses of
Carlton House Terrace, and in her décolleté white silk looked an
angel, if a somewhat highly developed one. Her bowling arm was
particularly noticeable, but that didn’t bother her a bit. It might be
that Miss Grace’s amiability enabled us to dispense with our war-
paint, but Miss Grace’s sex absolutely forbade her to dispense with
hers.
“Any of you men thought of the Sillenger yet?” she began with the
soup. “Fancy ‘Kensit’ myself rather.”
“I’ve a leaning towards ‘Helbeck of Bannisdale,’” said the little
curate.
“Naturally,” Miss Grace said. “But he wasn’t even placed in the Derby.
You take my tip, Toddles, he’s a rotter.”
“Laura,” said the Rector, “I am very sorry to hear you employ such
an amount of slang. In my opinion it is a most offensive habit,
particularly in women.”
“Well, you see, Father,” said his ingenuous daughter, “it’s a short way
of saying a lot. Besides, the boys use it.”
“Boys are barbarians,” said her parent.
“Oh, they are,” said Miss Grace. “Well, I think barbarians aren’t half
bad. Anyhow, I like what they like, so I s’pose I’m a bit of a
barbarian too.”
“Jennings,” said Archie, “serve the claret cup, quick! Grace, we’re
going to drink your thundering good health.”
We drank it with rare cordiality. The poor, dear Optimist who was
seated at my side had such an agitated hand that a portion of the
contents of his glass overflowed upon the cloth.
“You’ve spilt your luck,” said Toddles, in a melancholy undertone.
The Optimist’s condition was indeed to be deplored. The meal was
wholly excellent in its unpretentiousness; yet here was this young
man, who knew what dining was, utterly unable to appreciate his
chance. The way in which he toyed with and disdained fare that
could meet the needs of a parson with a palate was tragical indeed.
As for me, I was in a humour of sheer devilry. Now I have no wish to
bristle with wise saws and modern instances, or even to be
suspected of an epigram, but it always seems to me that when
emotion overtakes him, a man is either an ox or a giddy ox. I am the
latter, and I think when I come to be hanged that I shall go to the
gallows whistling. For such is the amount of coarse, brutal,
downright British bull-dog that has gone to the formation of my
character, that I was able to eat, drink, and let my soul flow at the
festive board, well knowing that those indescribably subtle
symptoms that had been born so recently within me were growing
more inconvenient hour by hour. Looking at the glorious Miss Grace,
and the fine figure of a girl she made, and comparing her to the two
very, very average men who were in imminent danger, if you will
please pardon the outworn image, of fluttering to their doom like
moths; comparing her, I say—oh, hang it, what do I say? But there,
Impatient Reader, you know what makes my mind so mixed, and
why it’s muddling my prose. Or if you don’t, I think you will know,
one day, since there comes a moment in the career of every average
man—oh, what am I saying?—really, Reader, I had no intention to be
rude!—when the sense of one’s own indescribability is really so
indescribable that one must feel it before it can be felt—oh damn!
Reader, I am sure I beg your pardon. But you understand me, don’t
you? To-night I had dwindled into the condition that I have so lucidly
described. Here was I, a mere cub, with only a big appetite and the
most animal health to recommend me, looking down a dinner-table
towards the One Girl in the World. True, I had sound lungs, a nice
wrist for cutting, an eye as clear as Grace’s own, and was mercifully
free of the curse of intellect in any form whatever; but surely even
such fine attributes as these are not too princely when laid at the
feet of the Goddess. No doubt Richard Cranford Dimsdale was a
pretty harmless sort of fellow, but an astonishing quantity of
harmlessness goes to the making of a husband.
Above all, I knew these speculations to be cheek of the worst kind;
but if a horrid, impish little clergyman sits opposite, and regards one
with a gaze of pure, rapturous pity, and talks in a holy undertone of
that man Comfort, and what that man Comfort said, and what a
privilege it is to converse with a person of his polished manners and
width of outlook, it is not always possible for one to marshal one’s
meditations into the channels of decency. As for the poor, dear
Optimist, he suffered to a like extent from the indefatigable Toddles.
The cheerful wretch writhed through the meal, and, of course, the
moment he tried to deliver a kick under the table to Toddles, he
fetched the Rector a crack on the knee. But in the matter of our
peerless hostess, the Optimist and I effusively agreed with one
another that we were both equally impossible. We were simply