“He needn’t be a flyer at games,” said Horace, duly softened by a little flattery. “But he might be a tryer!” “Wait till we get a little more breath into his body.” “A bag of oxygen wouldn’t make him a cricketer.” “Yet he’s so keen on cricket!” “I wish he wasn’t so keen; he thinks and talks more about it than Fred or I did when we were in the eleven, yet he never looked like making a player.” “I should say he thinks and talks more about most things; it’s his nature, just as it’s Fred’s and yours to be men of action.” “Well, I’m glad he’s not allowed to cumber the crease this season,” said Horace, bowling his cigarette-end into the darkness with a distinct swerve in the air. “To have him called our ‘pocket edition,’ on the cricket-field of all places, is a bit too thick.” Lettice withdrew her sympathetic hand. “He’s as good a sportsman as either of you, at heart,” she said warmly. “And I hope he may make you see it before this doctor’s done with him!” “This doctor!” jeered Horace, quick to echo her change of tone as well. “You mean the fool who wanted to send that kid round the world on his own?” “He’s no fool, Horace, and you know nothing whatever about him.” “No; but I know something about our Tony! If he took the least care of himself at home, there might be something to be said for letting him go; but he’s the most casual young hound I ever struck.” “I know he’s casual.” Lettice made the admission with reluctance; next moment she was sorry her sense of fairness had so misled her. “Besides,” said Horace, “he wouldn’t be cured if he could. Think what he’d miss!” “Oh, if you’re coming back to that, there’s no more to be said.” And the girl halted at the lighted windows. “But I do come back to it. Isn’t he up in town at this moment under this very doctor of yours?” “He’s not my doctor.” “But you first heard about him; you’re the innovator of the family, Letty, so it’s no use trying to score off me. Isn’t Tony up in London to-night?” “I believe he is.”