Suddenly Lynborough heard the ladies’ voices quite plainly. They--or some of them--had left the bench and come nearer to the boundary. Irresistibly drawn by curiosity, for an instant he turned his head. At the same instant the second gardener delivered a slow ball--a specious ball. This time young Woodwell fell into the snare. He jumped out and opened his shoulders to it. He hit it--but he hit it into the air. It soared over the bowler’s head and came travelling through high heaven towards Lord Lynborough. “Look out!” cried the second gardener. Lynborough’s head spun round again--but his nerves were shaken. His eyes seemed rather in the back of his head, trying to see the Marchesa’s face, than fixed on the ball that was coming towards him. He was in no mood for bringing off a safe catch! Silence reigned, the ball began to drop. Lynborough had an instant to wait for it. He tried to think of the ball and the ball only. It fell--it fell into his hands; he caught it--fumbled it--caught it--fumbled it again--and at last dropped it on the grass! “Oh!” went in a long-drawn expostulation round the field; and Lynborough heard a voice say plainly: “Who is that stupid clumsy man?” The voice was the Marchesa’s. He wheeled round sharply--but her back was turned. He had not seen her face after all! “Over!” was called. Lynborough apologised abjectly to the second gardener. “The sun was in my eyes, Peters, and dazzled me,” he pleaded. “Looks to _me_ as if the sun was shining the other way, my lord,” said Peters drily. And so, in physical fact, it was. In Peters’ next over Lynborough atoned--for young Woodwell had got his fifty and grown reckless. A one-handed catch, wide on his left side, made the welkin ring with applause. The luncheon bell rang too--for the innings was finished. Score 101. Last man out 52. Jim (office boy at Polytechnic) not out 0. Young Woodwell received a merited ovation--and Lord Lynborough hurried to the luncheon tent. The Marchesa, with an exceedingly dignified mien, repaired to her table under the spreading oak. Mr Dawson had done himself more than justice; the repast was magnificent. When Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more sure than ever what their duty was, more convinced still that the Marchesa would understand. Colonel Wenman became less sure what his duty was--previously it had appeared to him that it was to lunch with the Marchesa. But the Marchesa had spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as umpire, he ought to lunch with the teams. Irons declared it would look “deuced standoffish” if he didn’t. Lynborough, who appeared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr Dawson, pressed him into a chair with a friendly hand. “Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, won’t she?” said the Colonel, his last scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock-cup, artfully iced. The Nab Grange contingent fell to.