’Oh, my lady, he was tipsy last night, and kept swearing out loud he was a gentleman.’

‘Tipsy!’ the Countess murmured in terror.  She had heard of inaccessible truths brought to light by the magic wand of alcohol.  Was Evan intoxicated, and his dreadful secret unlocked last night?

‘And who may have told you of this, Conning?’ she asked.

Maria plunged into one of the boxes, and was understood to say that nobody in particular had told her, but that among other flying matters it had come to her ears.

‘My brother is Charity itself,’ sighed the Countess.  ’He welcomes high or low.’

‘Yes, but, my lady, a, tailor!’ Maria repeated, and the Countess, agreeing with her scorn as she did, could have killed her.  At least she would have liked to run a bodkin into her, and make her scream.  In her position she could not always be Charity itself:  nor is this the required character for a high-born dame:  so she rarely affected it.

’Order a fly:  discover the direction Mr. Harrington has taken; spare me further remarks,’ she said; and Maria humbly flitted from her presence.

When she was gone, the Countess covered her face with her hands.  ’Even this creature would despise us!’ she exclaimed.

The young lady encountered by Mr. Raikes on the road to Fallow field, was wrong in saying that Beckley would be seen out before the shades of evening caught up the ball.  Not one, but two men of Beckley—­the last two—­carried out their bats, cheered handsomely by both parties.  The wickets pitched in the morning, they carried them in again, and plaudits renewed proved that their fame had not slumbered.  To stand before a field, thoroughly aware that every successful stroke you make is adding to the hoards of applause in store for you is a joy to your friends, an exasperation to your foes; I call this an exciting situation, and one as proud as a man may desire.  Then, again, the two last men of an eleven are twins:  they hold one life between them; so that he who dies extinguishes the other.  Your faculties are stirred to their depths.  You become engaged in the noblest of rivalries:  in defending your own, you fight for your comrade’s existence.  You are assured that the dread of shame, if not emulation, is making him equally wary and alert.

Behold, then, the two bold men of Beckley fighting to preserve one life.  Under the shadow of the downs they stand, beneath a glorious day, and before a gallant company.  For there are ladies in carriages here, there are cavaliers; good county names may be pointed out.  The sons of first-rate families are in the two elevens, mingled with the yeomen and whoever can best do the business.  Fallow field and Beckley, without regard to rank, have drawn upon their muscle and science.  One of the bold men of Beckley at the wickets is Nick Frim, son of the gamekeeper at Beckley Court; the other is young Tom Copping, son of Squire Copping, of Dox Hall, in the parish of Beckley.  Last year, you must know, Fallow field beat.  That is why Nick Frim, a renowned out-hitter, good to finish a score brilliantly with a pair of threes, has taken to blocking, and Mr. Tom cuts with caution, though he loves to steal his runs, and is usually dismissed by his remarkable cunning.