“I repeat, if you stir them up, if you transfer the power to them—we go. I leave it to you to say whether you are honestly convinced that the masses will succeed where the classes have failed.” By this time they had strolled back to the marquee, and joined the others. Margot had no wish to prolong a futile discussion. As Moxon had said, his views were public property. She had listened to them, at first hand, from the more radical statesman who preached them in and out of season. Her particular object had been accomplished. Moxon, as she had guessed, was a man of parts. No girl would dismiss such a lover lightly. But he had come back. The rival teams lunched very fraternally together, and much shandygaff was consumed. Just before luncheon, Long-Baddeley was dismissed with ninety-two runs to their credit. Nether-Applewhite had lost one wicket. After luncheon, Alfred Rockley covered himself with glory. Joel Tibber had no terrors for him. Prudence applauded his feats with hands and voice. When Lionel and he got “set,” runs came swiftly—four after four. Spectators from Long-Baddeley enlivened the contest. Old gaffers left the ale-house to prattle together about matches played two score years ago, but never forgotten. To many an innings kindly Time had added runs. Finally, Alfred was caught in the deep field, and, as so often happens when a partnership is dissolved, Lionel playing forward at a short-pitched ball, was clean bowled. One hundred and fifty-seven for four wickets. Lionel, flushed by exercise and triumph, joined Margot. He looked his best. To his amazement, she fussed over him. He was very hot; he must put on a coat. A southerly breeze blew fresh from the Solent. He mustn’t sit down yet. Why not take a turn with her? Lady Pomfret was much amused. The pair wandered off, but Lionel insisted upon watching the game. “You will see Hamlin bat with a stump—a real treat.” “Not after you.” “Good Lord! And you are training me to appreciate fine bits. He’s a fine bit, and I’m a cheap reproduction.” Under her schooling, he was learning much about Pomfret furniture and pictures. “As to that, Lionel, you hold yourself too cheap.” Hamlin and Fishpingle were now batting. The old Cambridge “blue” exhibited form in its highest manifestation. Upon a pitch, now none too good, he stopped or struck every ball with absolute accuracy, timing them perfectly. Fishpingle presented the village “stone-waller,” intent only upon keeping up his wicket and letting the Parson score. Runs came slowly. Lionel told Margot that amateur bowlers lost their length against a stubborn defence. Then he said abruptly: “But, of course, you are bored.”