And this phenomenon in itself, I think, supplies a sufficient reason why the fair sex has yet to be seen in serious cricket. It simply would not do. The fielding was excellent. Miss Grace’s eye was on it, and all of us, whether we felt inclined that way or not, performed prodigies of valour. And if the handsomest girl in the county brings off a bewilderingly brilliant “caught and bowled” before one’s eyes, stops the hottest cracks one hand, and fields and returns smashing hits all in one action, any man, with the least pretensions to be a player, is certain to be a bit above himself. Therefore do not be surprised that my fielding in all positions was very good indeed, and won encomiums from men who were accustomed to the best. “Dimsdale,” said the little curate in a low but excruciatingly friendly tone, “you stick to that pick-up and return, and you’ve got the least little bit of a hundredth part of a look in. Keep as clean and keen as that, and it’s just on the cards that you may be adopted as a candidate.” “Candidate?” said I. “There was a man named Comfort came over here to lunch,” said the little curate. This sinister reference afflicted me with an overpowering disinclination to pursue the subject farther. Before Gloucestershire began their innings there was an interval for tea. There is no doubt that this question of afternoon tea has become quite a vexed one with the counties, and as Elphinstone--or was it Carteret?--observed, there are counties in existence who resolutely refuse to countenance the innovation. But Gloucestershire was never one of these. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that when Gloucestershire are fielding, though the reason is inexplicable of course, there is more time consumed over the cup that cheers than on any other occasion. Therefore in this instance it was quite an expected thing that there should be a pretty considerable interval for tea, and that Gloucester’s captain should lead the way to a fair white table, seductively spread in the shade of the beeches and the chestnuts in the coolest corner of the garden. The Rectory grounds were of no remarkable extent, but harboured a charming wilderness with two lawns therein beautifully turfed and mown and rolled for cricket only, to break the monotony of shrubs, trees, and flowers, growing at their own sweet will. If this was the favoured spot in which this famous family had been reared, and this the air they breathed, small wonder that they played cricket as naturally as Keats wrote poetry. They couldn’t help it. My enthusiasm demanded an outlet, and I told Miss Grace that hers was the most delightful place I’d ever seen.