dark and handsome, Doe fair and pretty, and myself drab and plain.  But now I got up and took myself, completely thrilled, to a mirror in the changing room to have a look at these same eyes.  I was prepared for something good.  The result was that I became almost sick with disappointment.  A close examination showed them to be quite commonplace.  I could not really detect that they were blue.  I even thought they looked a little foolish.  And, as I gazed at them, they certainly turned very sad.

I strolled back to the pavilion just as a burst of applause announced a fine drive by Doe.

“Oh, pretty stroke!” shouted Chappy, sprinkling quantities of ash.  “Pretty play!  By jove, the little fool’s a genius!”

“He may be a genius of some other sort,” said Radley, “but he’s not a genius at cricket.  Look at his diffidence in the treatment of swift balls.  He’s a cricketer made, not born.  He has imagination and a sense of artistic effect, and a natural grace—­that’s all.  They’ll make him a poet, perhaps, but not a cricketer.”

“Don’t talk such flapdoodle!” grumbled Chappy.  “Look at that!”

All that Doe did then was to direct the ball with perfect ease between Point and Short Slip and to glance quickly towards the pavilion to see if the stroke had been noticed.  The sight of him batting there made me feel another squirmy sensation at the thought that he was my especial friend.  He had given, I recall, his grey hat to the umpire to hold, and the wind was playing with his hair.  His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, showing arms smooth and round like a woman’s.

Just then, however, my attention was attracted by a new arrival.  The boy Freedham, having listlessly wandered across from Kensingtowe, slouched on to the Nursery playground.  He was a tall, weedy youth of sixteen; and the unhealthiness of his growth was shown by the long, graceless neck, the spare chest, and the thin wrists.  There was a weakness, too, at his knees which caused me to think that they had once worked on springs which now were broken.  But the greatest abnormality was seen in his eyes.  Startlingly large, startlingly bright, they were sometimes beautiful and always uncanny.

This Freedham, with his slack gait and carriage, strolled towards a railing and, resting both elbows on it, watched Doe at his cricket.  The whole picture is very clear on my mind.  A sunny afternoon seemed to have forgotten the time and only just made up its mind to merge into a mellow evening:  the boys, watching the game, were sending their young and lively sounds upon the air; those of the smaller cattle, whose interest had waned, were engaging with the worst taste in noisy French cricket:  the flannelled figures of the players, with their wide little chests, neat waists, and round hips, promised fine things for the manhood of England ten years on:  at the wicket stood the attractive figure of Edgar Doe in an occupation very congenial to him—­that of shining:  and Chappy had just said:  “I say, Radley, don’t you think this generation of boys is the most shapely lot England has turned out?  I wonder what use she’ll make of them,” when he saw Freedham’s entry and opened a new conversation.