The Optimist appeared to be having a particularly happy time. He was seated beside Miss Grace on the box-seat, talking in the most animated manner, whilst she put down the runs in the Hickory score-book, which she held on her knee. It is impossible to assess the exact amount of envy he provoked in the susceptible bosoms of his side seated on the pavilion front. We were still discussing the good fortune of the Optimist, and watching him pursue it, when he climbed down from his conspicuous position and came along towards eight of his flannel-clad colleagues, who had a terrible quantity of inflammable material in their manly interiors. “’Do believe he’s coming for us,” said the quick-eyed Secretary. “S’pose he takes the bally team?” “Isn’t it a good thing we’re so good-looking?” said the Humourist. “I really can’t help _my_ personal appearance,” said the General Nuisance, with a simper. “Soap might,” I said coarsely. But my temperature was very low. The answer of the General Nuisance was very properly taking the form of a naked fist; and I, on my part, was just proposing to test the staying powers of his singularly beautiful aquiline nose, when the Optimist arrived and lifted up his voice. “Dimsdale,” said he importantly, “Grace Trentham wants to see you. She thinks your batting’s prime. ’Says the way you stood up to Charlie the perfection of style and confidence. No end of a critic, I can tell you. ’Says your crack to cover’s test thing she’s seen in that line since Lionel Palairet’s off-drive. In fact, my son, I rather think if you’ll come and be presented to her you won’t be so very sorry. She wants to see you awfully.” The Optimist really was a very delightful person. He spoke loud enough for all the team to hear. Nor was he content to make a bald announcement of my honours, but managed to embroider them with an art that soured the uninvited for an hour. It was remarkable how promptly the whole team became occupied with other things. The Ancient fluked H. C. wretchedly through the slips for three. “Run it out!” they yelled, as though the match depended on it. “Go on, Ancient! Get back, Jack! Oh, well run! Well run!” “Come on, Dimsdale,” said the Optimist, the moment this riot subsided. “Let us get away from these nasty, noisy cricketers, and go into more refined society.” “Have you noticed,” said the Pessimist to the Treasurer, “how some men are never content unless they are sitting beside something that’s got a frock on? Never saw the fun myself in uttering bland lies to insipid schoolgirls, to estimate the amount of music in their ‘ohs’ and ‘reallys!’” “Mind you men bat your very best,” said the Optimist, as we departed, “then perhaps Grace Trentham’ll send for some of you. Never know your luck, you know, do you?” “How gaudy!” growled the Secretary. “Great encouragement to get runs.”