“No. In being a man of action,” I returned.
There was a sudden turn and hush among the Eton boys. Ted reappeared,
and they were awed in the presence of a great grief. He sat down next to
me with the hard look of one who asks no sympathy, folded his hands, and
stared at his shoes. The Eton boys whispered.
“And they play me for my batting,” he said, so softly that I scarcely
heard. “I’m a bat--a bat. I’m here to make runs.”
The Weltschmerz had sunk into his soul. I was about to say something,
but checked myself as Nellie bent forward.
“Ted,” she said, “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”