A Fish Dinner in Memison - Zimiamvian Trilogy 02 by E. R. Eddison Page B

hundred and nine, of which Glanford had made sixty off his own bat. Margesson now went in, and, (not because of any eggings on of impatient young ladies —unless, indeed, telepathy was at work—for Glanford it was who did the scoring), the play began to be brisk. Major Rustham, the Hyrnbastwick captain, now took Howard off and tried Sir Charles Bremmerdale, whose delivery, slowish, erratic, deceptively easy in appearance, yet concealed (as dangerous currents in the body of smooth-seeming water) a puzzling variety of pace and length and now and again an unexpected and most disconcerting check or spin. But Glanford had plainly got his eye in: Margesson too. We're winning, Nell,' said Lord Anmering to his niece, Mrs. Margesson. 'A dashed fine stand! said Sybil Playter. 'Shut up swearing,' said her sister. 'Shut up yourself: I'm not.' People clapped and cheered Glanford's strokes. Charles Bremmerdale now could do nothing with him: to mid-off, two: to mid-on, two: a wide: a strong drive, over cover's head, to the boundary, four: to long-leg in the deep field, two—no— three, while Jack Bailey bungles it with a long shot at the wicket: point runs after it: 'Come on!'—four: the fieldsman is on it, rums to throw in: ' No!' says Mar gesson, but Glanford, 'Yes! come on!' They run: Brem merdale is crouched at the wicket: a fine throw, into his hands, bails off and Glanford run out. 'Bad luck!' said Jim Scaraside, standing with Tom and Fanny Chedisford at the scoring table: Glanford had made ninety-one. 'But why the devil will he always try and bag the bowling?
    Glanford walked from the field, bat under his arm, shaking his head mournfully as he undid his batting-gloves. He went straight to the pavilion to put on his blazer, and thence, with little deviation from the direct road, to Mary. ‘I am most frightfully sorry,' he said, sitting down by her. ‘I did so want to bring you a century for a birthday present.'
    'But it was a marvellous innings,' she said. 'Good heavens, "What's centuries to me or me to centuries?" It was splendid.'
    'Jolly decent of you to say so. I was an ass, though, to get run out.'
    Mary's answering smile was one to smoothe the worst-ruffled feathers; then she resumed her conversation with Lucy Dilstead: 'You can read them over and over again, just as you can Jane Austen. I suppose it's because there's no padding.'
    'I've only read Shagpat, so far,' said Lucy.
    'O that's different from the rest. But isn't it delicious? So serious. Comedy's always ruined, don't you think, when it's buffooned? You want to live in it: something you can laugh with, not laugh at.'
    'Mary has gone completely and irretrievably cracked over George Meredith,' Jim said, joining them.
    'And who's to blame for that?' said she. 'Who put what book into whose hand? and bet what, that who would not be able to understand what-the-what it was all driving at until she had read the first how many chapters how many times over?'
    Jim clutched his temples, histrionically distraught. Hugh was not amused. The match proceeded, the score creeping up now very slowly with Margesson's careful play. General Macnaghten was saying to Mr. Romer, 'No, no, she's only twenty. It is: yes: quite extraordinary; but being only daughter, you see, and no mother, she's been doing hostess and so on for her father two years now, here and in London: two London seasons. Makes a lot of difference.'
    Down went another wicket: score, a hundred and fifty-three. ‘ Now for some fun,' people said as Tom Appleyard came on the field; but Margesson spoke a winged word in his ear: 'Look here, old chap: none of the Jessop business. It's too damned serious now.' 'Ay, ay, sir.' Margesson, in perfect style, sent back the last ball of the over. Appleyard obediently blocked and blocked. But in vain. For one of Bremmerdale's master-creations of innocent outward show and in ward guile sneaked round Marges son's defence and took his leg stump. Nine wickets down: total a hundred and fi