"Oh, it's genuine enough," said Mr. Harwood; "it's his
accomplishment--one to be proud of, isn't it? That'll do, Kenyon;
good-night, both of you."
The door closed.
"_He's_ one to be proud of," said Forrester pointedly, a vague
indignation rising within him. "A delightful little chap, I call him!
And he _was_ right to a decimal. I never heard of such a fellow!"
"He's cricket mad," said Mr. Harwood. "I'm glad you like him."
"I like him immensely. I like his enthusiasm. I never saw so small a
boy so keen. Does he play?"
"Not properly; he's not fit to; he's rather delicate. No, it's mostly
theory with Kenyon; and I'm very much afraid he'll bore you. You
mustn't let him. Indeed I fear you'll have a slow time all round; but,
as I told you, there's a horse to ride whenever you want him."
"Does the boy ride?"
"He's not allowed to. Then we have a very respectable club in the town,
where I can tuck you up and make you comfortable any time you like to
come down. Only don't, for your own sake, encourage Kenyon to be a
nuisance; he doesn't require very much encouragement."
"My dear sir, we're too keen cricketers to bore each other; we're going
to be tremendous friends. You don't mean to say he bores _you_? Ah,
with the scores, perhaps; but you must be awfully proud of having such
a jolly little beggar; I know _I_ should be! I'd make a cricketer of
him. If he's as keen as this now, in a few years' time----"
"You smoke, Forrester? We'll go into the other room."
Mr. Harwood had turned away and was putting out the lights.