“And she wouldn’t, that’s a moral,” said her brother, “had it been anybody but the Guv. Her consideration for the Guv is something beautiful. ’Wish she’d extend it to some other members of her family.” “There’s none of ’em can grumble,” said the little parson warmly. “She’s a mother to the lot. ’Gives you milk gruel when you’re sick. ’Won’t have you stay out late. ’Sends you in strict training before the Gentlemen and Players. ’Always up at Lords to give you the privilege of her advice. ’Coaches the lot of you like a pro. ’Dots your I’s and crosses your T’s for you, and puts your eyes and limbs together generally. Surely it isn’t reasonable to expect more from a sister; but some men want so thundering much. Tell you what, my boy, if there’d been no Grace to restrict your spiritual needs and minister to your temporal, Cambridge hadn’t cut up Oxford as they did, and Middlesex hadn’t been champion county. Grace is a trump!” The little parson’s heat was such that he was compelled to wipe his forehead. “Oh, I don’t deny that Grace has her points,” said that young person’s brother. “And no end of a fine girl is Grace,” said the little parson, quite at the mercy of his theme. “Real A 1, and looks it. And there’s nobody to deny it either.” “’Never could see it myself,” drawled Charlie, who in his fraternal capacity was of course at no pains to conceal his boredom. “’Can’t see where her looks come in at all.” “If she were some other fellow’s sister, it’s likely that you might,” said I. Perhaps it was that my tone conveyed more than I was aware of, for the great bowler looked at me with a shrewdly humorous countenance that rather reminded me of Robert Abel’s. “Hullo, Toddles!” he observed. “What price that? ’Nother victim. I’m getting to recognise the symptoms straight away. But, Dimsdale, you be advised. The Rectory positively reeks of slaughtered innocence. Two refused last week. Now, don’t you come and play the goat.” “Wonder who it will be in the end?” asked the poor dear Optimist to cover my retreat. But his own effort was a perfect masterpiece of self-repression. “Perhaps the noble Earl,” said the little parson. “He’s been right over his ears this two years. Poor old Dick!” “No blooming fear!” said Miss Grace’s brother, with a profound conviction that both delighted and depressed the poor old Optimist and the miserable me. “Dick’s a rank outsider. ’Hasn’t a thousand-to-one chance. Last time he tried it on he sank so low as to tell her what his income was. ‘Now, look here, Dick,’ said she, ‘I don’t care a straw about your income; what’s your batting average?’ Fact! Told it to the ’Varsity, and they put it in _The Granta_. And the joke is, that Dick is the most horrible muff you ever saw. ’Couldn’t get a run to save his life. Well, he sent for Attewell and Brockwell to coach him all the spring. But he’s not yet at the top of the first-class averages.” “Well, _who_ will it be?” I asked recklessly.