‘Why, I play regularly in the ladies’ match.’
‘Margaret! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I feared you would despise me.’
Reginald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling.
‘Margaret,’ he said, and his accents thrilled with a dawning hope, ‘this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do you like poetry really?’
Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:
‘No, Reginald,’ she said. ‘It is as you suspect. I am not worthy of you. I do not like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away!’
‘I don’t,’ yelled Reginald. ‘I don’t. You’ve made me another man, Margaret!’
She stared, wild-eyed, astonished.
‘What! Do you mean that you, too —’
‘I should jolly well think I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I only pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I’ve spent mugging it up! I wonder I’ve not got brain fever.’
‘Reggie! Used you to read it up too? Oh, if I’d only known!’
‘And you forgive me — this afternoon, I mean?’
‘Of course. You couldn’t leave a cricket match. By the way, did you make any runs?’
Reginald coughed.
‘A few,’ he said, modestly. ‘One or two. In fact, rather a lot. As a matter of fact, I made a hundred and thirteen.’
‘A hundred and thirteen!’ whispered Margaret. ‘My hero!’
‘You won’t be wanting me for a bit, will you?’ asked Brewster, nonchalantly. ‘Think I’ll smoke a cigarette in the garden.’
And sobs from the staircase told that Mrs Melville was already on her way to her room.