CHAPTER VIII. 

Breakfast on Sunday morning was an hour later than on week-days, and Priscilla, who usually made no public appearance before luncheon, honoured it by her presence. Dressed in black silk, with a ruby cross as well as her customary string of pearls round her neck, she presided. An enormous Sunday paper concealed all but the extreme pinnacle of her coiffure from the outer world. 

"I see Surrey has won," she said, with her mouth full, "by four wickets. The sun is in Leo: that would account for it!" 

"Splendid game, cricket," remarked Mr. Barbecue-Smith heartily to no one in particular; "so thoroughly English." 

Jenny, who was sitting next to him, woke up suddenly with a start. "What?" she said. "What?" 

"So English," repeated Mr. Barbecue-Smith. 

Jenny looked at him, surprised. "English? Of course I am." 

He was beginning to explain, when Mrs. Wimbush vailed her Sunday paper, and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midst of orange splendours. "I see there's a new series of articles on the next world just beginning," she said to Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "This one's called 'Summer Land and Gehenna.'" 

"Summer Land," echoed Mr. Barbecue-Smith, closing his eyes. "Summer Land. A beautiful name. Beautiful--beautiful." 

Mary had taken the seat next to Denis's. After a night of careful consideration she had decided on Denis. He might have less talent than Gombauld, he might be a little lacking in seriousness, but somehow he was safer. 

"Are you writing much poetry here in the country?" she asked, with a bright gravity. 
Which meant what?
cricket