“Nor I,” said she. “But this I will say, Dimmy. Now that I’ve seen the sort o’ tosh you _do_ bowl, I’m certain that I shall have just a walk over. I always guessed it was pretty bad, your bowling, but I didn’t think it could be quite the giddy essence of utterness that it really is. If you’ll take my tip you’ll try lobs. I _might_ get into two minds with those, you know, as nobody’s quite happy with lobs. Your other sort, though, won’t have me out in a season. I should advise you to scratch. You’ll have an awful time if you don’t. I’m speaking plain as a friend, old chap.” “So beastly good of you to be so beastly friendly,” said I gloomily. The downright Grace certainly meant to behave nicely. Her advice was perfectly well-meant and sincere; but how impossible it was to take it! I would prefer to sacrifice my personal dignity rather than my opportunity. Besides, her complete indifference to the result of our encounter was a great humiliation in itself. Could she have by any chance forgotten the stakes for which I was to play? I deemed it wise to sound her. “Well, I will scratch on one condition,” said I. “My dear Dimmy,” said she, “I’m not asking a favour, you know. Entirely in your own interests, I can assure you. You are at liberty to play the match or scratch it as you just please. Matter of perfect indifference to me, you know. Merely suggested scratching to spare you a tremendous licking. Don’t matter to me personally one way or the other, a little bit.” “Oh, it don’t,” said I, feeling both hot and emotional; and had a traction-engine been taking the liberty of going over me, I don’t think I could have felt more crushed. “Why should it?” said Grace, gazing at me with big-eyed demureness. “My dear Grace,” said I; “my dear Grace.” Her eyes grew bigger. “What’s up, old chap?” said she. “You’re not forgetting,” I said anxiously; “you’re not forgetting, I hope, what this match means to me. You promised to give my claims the most serious consideration if I won, didn’t you?” Grace’s reply was laughter. I sought to compensate my injuries a little by persuading myself that this ebullience on the part of Grace was in the worst possible taste. But this I knew to be a chimera, raised from the ruins of my self-esteem; for Grace was that forthright, fearless kind of soul who had only to do a thing to create the precedent for it. Somehow she seemed quite unable to lose her breeding for a moment, as, by some strange oversight, the science of snobbery had been omitted from her education altogether. Therefore she did not spend her time in committing the very solecisms that she strove most to avoid. Could she have been bred in England? This trite reflection, Impatient Reader, is not really a digression, but is a device introduced to allow Grace full time to have her laugh out. When it was ended at last, I said mildly:-- “What’s the joke, Grace?”