The cricketer was a sunburnt giant, disappointingly free from personal lustre, and chiefly remarkable for his hands. He had an enormous hand, and when it closed like jaws over Kenyon's little one, this suffering student could well understand his _Lillywhite_ characterising C. J. Forrester as "a grand field, especially in the country." They talked cricket together from the first moment, and until Kenyon said good-night. Upstairs he told Ethel that so far they had got no further than the late match against Notts; that Forrester had described it "as if he'd only _seen_ the thing;" and that she was quite right, and C. J. was far less cut up at the result than he was. It was Kenyon's county which had been trounced by Nottinghamshire, and he went so far as to affirm that C. J. Forrester's disappointing form had directly contributed to the disaster, and that he deserved to lose his place in the team. This, however, was but a drop of bravado in the first flood of enthusiasm for C. J. Mr. Harwood watched and heard the frank, free, immediate intercourse between Kenyon and the visitor. He had never known Kenyon so bright and animated--so nearly handsome. The boy was at his best, and his best was a revelation to Mr. Harwood, who had never in his life had a real conversation with Kenyon such as Forrester was having now. He had talked _to_ Kenyon, that was all. As he sat grimly listening, with Ethel snubbed to silence, he may have felt a jealous longing to be his small son's friend, not merely his father; to interest him, as this complete stranger was doing, and he himself honestly interested; to love openly, and be openly loved. The man was self-conscious enough to feel all this, and to smile as he rose to look at the clock, and saw in the mirror behind it no trace of such feeling in his own thin-lipped, whiskered face. At nine the children said good-night, of their own accord, knowing better than to stay a minute over their time. Mr. Harwood kissed them as coldly and lightly as usual; but surprised them with a pleasantry before they reached the door. "Wait, Kenyon. Forrester, ask him your average. He'll tell you to a decimal. He knows what he calls his _Lillywhite_ by heart." Kenyon looked extremely eager, though Mr. Harwood's tone struck Forrester as a little sarcastic. "You've been getting it up!" the cricketer said knowingly to Kenyon. "I haven't," declared Kenyon, bubbling over with excitement. "You needn't ask him your own," Ethel added, quite entering into it. "He knows them all." "Oh, we'll have mine," said Forrester, who felt slightly ridiculous but much amused. "What was it for the 'Varsity--my first year?" Kenyon had to think. That was three years ago, before he had known much about cricket; but he had read up that year's _Lillywhite_--he read as many old _Lillywhites_ as he could borrow--and he answered in a few moments: "Nineteen point seven." "You _have_ been getting it up!" cried Forrester.