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“I don’t see where there’s room,” said the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy, sulkily.

“There’s room on the front bench,” cackled the Marquis, shaking his sides.

“Oh, I don’t want you to roll off for him,” said Miss Roan, who treated Ministerial Marquises with a contempt that bred in them a delightful sense of familiarity. “Tolshunt can sit opposite me–he’s stared at the cricket long enough.”

Tolshunt blushed with apparent irrelevance. But even the prospect of staring at Amber more comfortably did not reconcile him to displacement. “It’s so awkward meeting a fellow who’s had a tumble,” he grumbled. “It’s like having to condole with a man fresh from a funeral.”

“There doesn’t seem much black about Walter Bassett,” Amber laughed. And at this moment–the dull end of a “maiden over”–the radiant personage in question turned his head, and perceiving Lady Chelmer’s massive smile, acknowledged her recognition with respectful superiority, whereupon her Ladyship beckoned him with her best parasol manner.

“I want to introduce you to my friend, Miss Roan,” she said, as he climbed to her side.

“I’ve been reading so much about you,” said that young lady, with a sweet smile. “But you shouldn’t be so independent, you know, you really shouldn’t.”

He smiled back. “I’m only independent till they come to my way of thinking.”

Lady Chelmer gasped. “Then you still have hopes of Highmead!”

“I won a moral victory there each time, Lady Chelmer.”

“How so, sir?” put in the Marquis. “Your opponent increased the Government majority–“

“And my reputation. A tiresome twaddler. Unfortunately,” and he smiled again, “two moral victories are as bad as a defeat. On the other hand, a defeat at a bye-election equals a victory at a general. You play a solo–and on your own trumpet.” A burst of cheering rounded off these remarks. This time Amber did not even inquire what it indicated–she was almost content to take it as an endorsement of Walter Bassett’s epigrams. But Lord Woodham eagerly improved the situation. “A fine stroke that,” he said, “but a batsman outside a team doesn’t play the game.”

“It will be a good time for the country, Lord Woodham,” Mr. Bassett returned quietly, “when people cease to regard the Parliamentary session as a cricket match, one side trying to bowl over or catch out the other. But then England always has been a sporting nation.”

“Ah, you allow some good in the old country,” said Lady Chelmer, pleased. “Look at the trouble we all take to come here to encourage the dear boys;” and the words ended with a tired sigh.

“Yes, of course, that is the side on which they need encouragement,” he rejoined drily. “Majuba was lost on the playing-field of Lord’s.”

There was a moment of shocked surprise. Lady Chelmer, herself a martyr to the religion of sport thus blasphemed–of which she understood as little as of any other religion–hastily tried to pour tea on the troubled waters. But they had been troubled too deeply. For full eight minutes the top of the drag became a political platform for Marquis-Ministerial denunciations of Mr. Gladstone, to a hail of repartee from the profane young man.

At the end of those eight minutes–when Lady Chelmer was at last able to reinsinuate tea into the discussion–Miss Amber Roan realised with a sudden shock that she had not “chipped in” once, and that “poor Walter Bassett” had commanded her ear for all that time without pouring into it a single compliment, or, indeed, addressing to it any observation whatever. For the first time since her debut in the Milwaukee parlour at the age of five, this spoiled daughter of the dollar had lost sight of herself. As they walked towards the tea-tent, through the throng of clergymen and parasols and tanned men with field-glasses, and young bloods and pretty girls, she noted uneasily that his eyes wandered from her to these types of English beauty, these flower-faces under witching hats. Indeed, he had led her out of the way to plough past a row of open carriages. “The shortest cut,” he said, “is past the prettiest woman.”