"Oh, I'm not nearly ready yet!"
Rose Lomas stood at the open window of her bedroom. Her bare arms and
shoulders gleamed softly in the twilight. One hand held her loosened
hair on the top of her head, and the other pressed a garment to her
chest.
"Alright," said Arthur, standing at the gate, "buck up."
Rose looked cautiously around as though to make sure no one else was
in a position to observe her _decolleté_. But the road was empty. It
seemed pleasant to see Arthur standing there twirling his walking stick
and looking upwards at her. She decided to keep him there for a few
moments.
"Lovely evening," she remarked, presently.
"Yes, jolly," said Arthur, "buck up."
"_I am_ bucking up."
"You're not even dressed!"
"I am," Rose insisted, distantly, "much more than you think. I've got
lots on."
They looked solemnly at one another for a long while without even
approaching a "stare out."
"How many runs did you make," Rose asked. She had to repeat the
question again before he could hear it distinctly. Besides, he never
could believe that her interest in cricket was serious.
"None," he admitted, "but I was not out."