Margot went back to Lady Pomfret and tea. She sat next to Joyce and talked to her. Joyce seemed preoccupied—not herself. Her interest in the game struck Margot as feigned. Her face, too, was paler than usual, faint shadows encircled her eyes. Was she sorry that Moxon had come back? It appeared, however, that Moxon’s visit was incidental, almost accidental. He had to leave on the Monday.
Margot, under the same circumstances, would have said “No.” She decided that Joyce’s sincerity might be reckoned her _cheval de bataille_. She expressed sympathy, offering to send her maid to fetch some aspirin tabloids from the Hall. Joyce made light of a petty ailment. The sun was rather hot. Her headache would pass. As the two girls talked one of the village mothers passed by, dragging a toddler of her own. The child caught her foot in the ropes of the marquee, fell heavily, and began to howl. Joyce jumped up, snatched the child from the ground, crooned over it, hugged it, made it laugh, whilst the young mother stood sheepishly looking on.
“Leave her with me for a few minutes,” said Joyce.
The mother moved on, the child cuddled up to Joyce, and then fell asleep. Margot said in a whisper.
“No; I don’t think I know this child. The mother is from Ocknell. She married a Nether-Applewhite man, but they have only come here lately.”
Presently the mother came back, but the child left Joyce reluctantly. Margot thought that she had guessed the riddle.
“Oh no. Village mothers rather spoil their children. Didn’t you know that?”
Margot confessed that she didn’t. Joyce continued:
“But, of course, there is the reaction, when they are tired and fussed. That mother was fussed. I saw it at once. To come here this afternoon means more work to-night.”
“Really, you know, you’re rather an amazing person. But you hide your light. I don’t. Yours burns with a steadier beam.”
Stumps were to be drawn at seven promptly. As the minutes slipped by, Nether-Applewhite realised sorrowfully that Time had ranged himself with the enemy. Long ago, they had abandoned the hope of scoring runs. Each batsman was instructed to block the bowling, to hold the fort defensively. Five wickets had fallen for some sixty runs, and the best batsmen were out. Could the tail of the team wag on for twenty minutes? Hamlin put himself on to bowl lobs, twisting, curling, underhand balls. At Cambridge, long ago, the head of his College, the illustrious Master of Trinity, had made a jest upon Hamlin’s bowling. Presenting a prize set of books, he had remarked blandly, “Hamlin, you are the only undergraduate I know who has combined underhand practices with stainless integrity.”