uld beat the
B---- Cutter Club, and protested that he never saw finer bowling at
Lord's than Hanmer's.

Branling was in delight. He had found a man who would smoke with him all
day (report said, indeed, that the Tiger regularly went to sleep with
a cheroot in his mouth), and he had the superintending of "the boat,"
which was his thought from morning to night. A light gig, that had once
belonged to the custom-house, was polished and painted under his special
directions (often did we sigh for one of King's worst "fours!") and the
fishermen marvelled at such precocious nautical talent.

None of these, however--great events as they were in our hitherto
monotonous sojourn--were the "crowning mercy" of the Glyndewi regatta.
Hitherto the sunshine of bright eyes, and the breath of balmy lips, had
been almost as much unknown to us as if we had been still within the
monastic walls of Oxford. We had dined in a body at our friend the
surgeon's: he was a bachelor. We had been invited by twos and threes at
a time to a Welsh squire's in the neighbourhood, who had two maiden
sisters, and a fat, good-humoured wife. Captain Phillips had given us a
spread more than once at Craig-y-gerron, and, of course, some of us (I
was not so fortunate) had handed in the Misses Phillips to dinner; but
the greater part of the time from six till eleven (at which hour Hanmer
always ordered out our "_trap_") was too pleasantly occupied in
discussing the captain's port and claret, and laughing at his jokes,
to induce us to give much time or attention to the ladies in the
drawing-room. If some of my fair readers exclaim against this stoic (or
rather epicurean) indifference, it may gratify their injured vanity to
know, that in the sequel some of us paid for it.

The Phillipses came down in full force the day before the regatta; they
were engaged to lunch with us, and, as it was the first time that the
ladies of the party had honoured us with a visit, we spared no pains to
make our entertainment somewhat more _recherche_ than was our wont. It
was then that I first discovered that Clara Phillips was beautiful. I am
not going to describe her now; I never could have described her. All I
knew, and all I remember, was, that for a long time afterwards I formed
my standard of what a woman ought to be, by unconscious comparison with
what she was. What colour her eyes were, was a question among us at the
time. Willingham swore they were grey; Dawson insisted that the