“Yes, and no,” said Mary, in a way that the best girls have. Yes, to imply that she really had had a good time; no, to suggest that she was not insensible to her severance from a loving brother. A mere man would have been incapable of summing up the exigencies of the moment in this wholly admirable fashion. “But, Ricky,” said she, placing her hands on my shoulders and looking into my face with tremendously embarrassing intentness, “what’s the matter with you? You look quite old and weary. You didn’t get a duck yesterday.” “I only got seven,” said I, seeking to creep out on a subterfuge. “Yes, I bought a _Sportsman_,” said Mary. “Leg before’s very annoying, I know, but you mustn’t let it wreck your health.” “But mine was the only single figure,” said I, to still further disarm suspicion. But all this time Mary’s penetrating glance had never left my dissembling countenance; and when she said, in a rather downright manner, “Look here, Ricky, I don’t think it’s that at all,” I was not a bit surprised by her profundity, although it did not prevent me looking guilty. “They’ve not invited you to play against Somerset next week?” she asked, with bated breath; “because if they have I can understand it.” “No,” I said, “they’ve not.” “Then I think they’re very mean,” said Mary; “but what _is_ the matter, Ricky?” Now Mary had a way with her that I never could resist. Besides here is a difference between the sexes. We have only one way of getting to know anything we want to know, and that is blunt demand; but a woman has five thousand ways or more, mostly indirect, to make the Sphinx unfold its bosom. Therefore it was a rule of mine to accept the inevitable straight away in the case of Mary. Sooner or later she was bound to catch me napping, besides, an early concession spared us both a vast amount of trouble. “Do you know Laura Trentham?” said I desperately. “Oh, yes,” said Mary. “Wouldn’t you call her no end of a nice girl?” “She’s a very dear girl,” said Mary warmly. “Quite one of the nicest girls I know--if she wouldn’t talk slang.” “Slang!” said I. “Why, _does_ she talk slang?” “Dreadfully,” said Mary, in that tone of high reproof that the best sisters are so fond of. “Dreadfully, Ricky. Isn’t it a pity?” “Awful,” said I. “S’pose slangy women are awfully beastly.” “They’re _outrées_,” said Mary. “Besides, men like it.” “Don’t think they know what slang is,” said I. “S’pose it’s the same as the split infinitive--sort o’ thing that everybody likes to jolly well jaw about and don’t know what it is.” “My _dear_ Ricky,” said Mary sternly. Her eye fairly flashed with the Higher Culture, therefore I hastened to dismiss a subject on which she had such strong opinions. “I met Laura Trentham yesterday, at the Hickory match, you know,” said I guiltily. “Hadn’t we better begin lunch?” said Mary. “Travelling’s made me so hungry.”