luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. The ladies want to see
the pitch, and, shall we add, to display their wonderful frocks. The
enclosure at Ascot on Cup Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as this.
The Caterpillar, sly dog, has secured Iris Warde, and looks uncommonly
pleased with himself and his companion; a smart pair, but smart pairs
are common as gooseberries. It is the year of picture hats and
Gainsborough dresses.

"England at its best," says Miss Iris.

"And in its best," the Caterpillar replies solemnly.

Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter ought to be. She tells
the Caterpillar that when she was a small girl with only threepence a
week pocket-money, she used to save a penny a week for twelve weeks
preceding the match, so as to be able to put a shilling into the plate
on Sunday _if Harrow won_.

"And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and wear light blue after all,"
growls the Caterpillar.

"Never!" says Miss Iris.

Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you see a white figure or
two. The Elevens have finished lunch, and are mixing with the crowd.
Scaife is talking with a famous Old Carthusian, one of the finest living
exponents of cricket, sometime an "International" at football, and a
D.S.O. The great man is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an
All-England player. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is impatient
to begin again. As soon as possible he collects his men, and leads them
into the field. One can hear the policemen saying in loud, firm voices,
"Pass along, please; pass along!" As if by magic the crowds on the lawn
melt away. In a few minutes the Etonians come out of the pavilion. The
sun shines upon their pale-blue caps and sashes, and upon faces slightly
pale also, but not yet blue. For Eton has a strong batting team, and
Scaife and Desmond have proved that it is a batsman's wicket.

And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, settle themselves
down comfortably to watch Scaife field. That, to them, is the great
attraction, apart from the contest between the rival schools. Some of
these Olympians have been heard to say that Scaife's innings against
weak bowling was no very meritorious performance, although the two
"swipes," they admit, were parlous knocks. Still, Public School cricket
is kindergarten cricket, and if you've not been at Eton or Harrow, and
if you loathe a fashionable crowd, and if you think first-class fielding
is worth coming to Lord's to