It was well for Mary that her patience had no limits, for during that meal I consumed incredible quantities of this invaluable article. However, I felt perhaps a thought more cheerful for the energy and colour of my language. But Mary’s last word was: “Ricky, I’m so sorry that Laura Trentham does talk slang.” I lost no time in seeking the open air. Indoors I breathed with difficulty, and was, moreover, ridiculously restless. I wandered aimlessly about the fields of sunshine, without noting in the least the direction that I took. I meandered across blistering meadows to the neighbouring village of Nowhere-in-Particular. A singularly disordered mind was my one companion. And such was its condition that I neither heeded my direction nor the landmarks by the way. Therefore, when in the course of two hours’ rambling it suddenly occurred to me that it would be as well to observe where I was, and set my face for home, I should not have been very surprised to find that I had strolled off the map of England. Where was I? There was a low hedge directly ahead. Beyond that I could indistinctly see, trees being intermingled with them, glass-houses, out-houses, and an ivy-grown, ancient manor-house. Whose place was this? Next instant I shook with hollow laughter at myself. It was Hickory Rectory, Miss Grace’s home. This was really too preposterous. The ivy-grown arrangement just in front was Hickory Rectory for all that. And the family were still at home, and apparently engaged in their principal vocation. For even as I stood girding at my own absurdity, a voice came from the other side the hedge to this effect: “Grace, if you will keep covering the sticks every time with your confounded skirt, you’ll be out petticoat before.” “Oh, shall I!” said the audacious person thus addressed. “If you can’t bowl me, you’d better bowl for catches and get me caught. Put Toddles on. He might get me collared in the long-field like anything.” Although I was still applying cynical laughter to my infernal folly, I was quite prepared to seize the opportunity of seeing great men in private life, and that other surpassing member of their family showing them how things should be done. Therefore I found myself gazing with both eyes over the hedge on to the Rectory lawn. It was a single wicket match. Grace herself was batting. A. H. was bowling slow breaks; Captain George was keeping wicket; Elphinstone was in the country; T. S. M., H. C., and Carteret were all disposed on the leg-side; whilst an old, foxey-looking individual was acting in the responsible capacity of umpire. I had not been there a minute ere Miss Grace, in attempting a tremendous blind swipe right off her middle over the cucumber frame at deep square-leg, was saved by her skirt from being clean bowled. “How’s that?” cried A. H., lustily. “Not hout!” cried the umpire, in a tone that plainly told A. H. what he, the umpire, thought of him as a man and a gentleman.