In addition to her curl, there were several other things appertaining to Grace’s bowling that required watching. Her length was perfect, and, strangely enough, like her model the great Alfred Shaw, she had acquired the trick of heightening and lowering her delivery without any appreciable change in the action, but a pretty considerable amount in the flight. And, better than this, or worse, she was mistress in a measure of the painfully difficult art of making occasional balls “hang.” Although the Rectory wicket was well-nigh perfect, one had to watch her all the way, and then be prepared to alter one’s tactics at the last moment. She could make them “do a bit” both ways, and, in addition to all these accomplishments, she had the imperturbable temperament of the really great bowler--she didn’t mind being hit. That attitude of mind is undoubtedly the hall-mark of the master. She kept pitching up to me in the most audacious way. But I resolutely refused to “have a go,” until at last she had the downright impudence to send me a particularly slow full toss to leg, which I, of course, promptly cracked to the fence for four. “Thought you wouldn’t be able to resist that,” she said winningly. “And do have a smack at this, Dimmy, just for fun.” “This” was a particularly silly-looking half-volley well on the leg-side also. Having tasted the delights of a fourer so recently, I was naturally a bit headstrong and uplifted. I had a full sweep at it, and in the heat of the moment utterly ignored the fatal curl. As a consequence I caught it on the extreme end of my bat, and it went spinning up a considerable height, straight into the hands of mid-on. My very soul groaned. To be caught napping so absurdly and so palpably! My emotions were so bitter that gall becomes honey by comparison. For I had walked into the trap with my eyes open. Now the Optimist was the fieldsman at mid-on. And the dear, kind Optimist, most unselfish of men, had a fellow feeling that made him wondrous kind! The Optimist shaped for the catch in the crudest manner. He dropped me inexcusably in consequence. It was idle of him to urge, as urge he did, that the sun was in his eyes, and that he couldn’t see the catch. As the bowler fiercely pointed out, the sun was directly behind him. “It must have been the shadow, then,” said the Optimist unblushingly. The roars of laughter that greeted his unscrupulous behaviour and his subsequent effrontery were infectious. Even the Rector contributed a hearty guffaw. “Little Clumpton’s sold you this time!” cried T. S. M. in ecstasy. “You may be very clever, Grace, but you’ve just got left.” The bowler’s dignity and self-restraint were really very fine, however. “He’ll simply get it all the worse when I go in,” was her Spartan answer. “We shall all take _extremely_ great care to collar anything you put up, though,” said T.S.M., “so you’d better play _piano_ till you’ve got the runs off.”