Hastily dressing, Lionel was sensible of an emotion which might or might not be the quickening of love. He found himself envying Alfred. It must be jolly to have a pretty girl look at a fellow as Prudence looked at her lover. The world was going round and round for them. Had little Margot such a glance in her battery? Had she ever looked at a man like that? Had Joyce? When he appeared in the Long Saloon, the last of the party, Margot was wearing her new frock, fashioned out of chiffon of the particular emerald green she affected and so bespangled that it looked as if dusted with tiny diamonds. About her white neck shimmered her famous pearls. She wore no other jewelry. Lionel, as he approached her, shaded his eyes. The Squire chuckled. “A bit of a dazzler, eh, boy?” “Quite stunning,” said Lionel. Margot flashed a glance at him, which the Squire and Lady Pomfret, standing just behind her, couldn’t see. Long afterwards Lionel described this glance as a “crumpled.” The question, so doubtfully propounded whilst he was dressing, had been answered. Tom Challoner was a fool. Lady Margot Maltravers might be cold as Greenland’s icy mountains to him—and serve him right! To a friend, at the psychological moment, her heart revealed itself enchantingly—warm as India’s coral strand. They went into dinner. The talk settled upon a cricket-match to be played, next day, upon the Squire’s ground—Nether-Applewhite _v._ Long-Baddeley, a neighbouring village. The Parson captained his XI. The Squire, in a long white kennel-overcoat, officiated as umpire. Margot wanted to play games. Looking on bored her. But the Squire promised entertainment. Obviously, he had set his heart upon a victory. Lionel was quite as keen. To hear the two discussing the “form” of different village champions, one might suppose that an international match impended. Sir Geoffrey mentioned a bowler, Joel Tibber, who put the fear of the Lord into timid batsmen. Joel could pitch a ball with deadly accuracy at the batsman’s head. Having established the right degree of “funk,” he bowled with equal accuracy at the wicket. Joel belonged to Long-Baddeley, but his mother had been born in Nether-Applewhite. The Squire felt that he owned a half-interest in Joel. Margot hoped that Fishpingle would take the field, and Lionel told her that he kept wicket. She learnt later that the Parson batted with a thick broomstick, about the right handicap for a man who had made his “century” for the Gentlemen of England. The Squire said solemnly: “If Lionel is in form we shall romp home.” “Do you feel in form?” asked Margot. “Ra-_ther_! But if that beast Joel picks me off, as he did last time, I shall want ‘first aid.’ Can you give it?” Lady Pomfret observed mildly, “I take a little arnica and lint on to the battlefield.” Margot said, as solemnly as Sir Geoffrey: “This is a serious affair.”