Barter thought:
'Beautiful site. We've nothing like this at Worsted Skeynes....'
But suddenly he found that he could not sit there and think. Suppose
his wife were to die! It happened sometimes; the wife of John Tharp of
Bletchingham had died in giving birth to her tenth child! His forehead
was wet, and he wiped it. Casting an angry glance at the Winlow graves,
he left the seat.
He went down by the further path, and came out on the green. A
cricket-match was going on, and in spite of himself the Rector stopped.
The Coldingham team were in the field. Mr. Barter watched. As he had
thought, that left-hand bowler bowled a good pace, and "came in" from
the off, but his length was poor, very poor! A determined batsman would
soon knock him off! He moved into line with the wickets to see how much
the fellow "came in," and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first
notice the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer,
smoking a cigarette astride of a camp-stool.
"Ah, Winlow, it's your team against the village. Afraid I can't stop
to see you bat. I was just passing--matter I had to attend to--must get
back!"
The real solemnity of his face excited Winlow's curiosity.
"Can't you stop and have lunch with us?"
"No, no; my wife--Must get back!"
Winlow murmured:
"Ah yes, of course.
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