These thoughts came and went. In the meantime, despite her apelike study of her companions, she remained where the other sex was concerned a disheartening failure. A further incident drove this home anew.
One Saturday afternoon, those boarders who had not been invited out were taken to see a cricket-match. They were a mere handful, eight or nine at most, and Miss Snodgrass alone was in charge. All her friends being away that day, Laura had to bring up the rear with the governess and one of the little girls. Though their walk led them through pleasant parks, she was glad when it was over; for she did not enjoy Miss Snodgrass’s company. She was no match for this crisply sarcastic governess, and had to be the whole time on her guard. For Miss Snodgrass was not only a great talker, but had also a very inquiring mind, and seemed always trying to ferret out just those things you did not care to tell—such as the size of your home, or the social position you occupied in the township where you lived.
Arrived at the cricket ground, they climbed the Grand Stand and sat down in one of the back rows, to the rear of the other spectators. Before them sloped a steep bank of hats—gaily-flowered and ribbon-banded hats—of light and dark shoulders, of alert, boyish profiles and pale, pretty faces—a representative gathering of young Australia, bathed in the brilliant March light.
Laura’s seat was between her two companions, and it was here the malheur occurred. During an interval in the game, one of the girls asked the governess’s leave to speak to her cousin; and thereupon a shy lad was the target for twenty eyes. He was accompanied by a friend, who, in waiting, sat down just behind Laura. This boy was addressed by Miss Snodgrass; but he answered awkwardly, and after a pause, Laura felt herself nudged.
“You can speak to him, Laura,” whispered Miss Snodgrass. She evidently thought Laura waited only for permission, to burst in.
Laura had already fancied that the boy looked at her with interest. This was not improbable; for she had her best hat on, which made her eyes seem very dark—“like sloes,” Chinky said, though neither of them had any clear idea what a sloe was.
Still, a prompting to speech invariably tied her tongue. She half turned, and stole an uneasy peep at the lad. He might be a year older than herself; he had a frank, sunburnt face, blue eyes, and almost white flaxen hair. She took heart of grace.
“I s’pose you often come here?” she ventured at last.
“You bet!” said the boy; but kept his eyes where they were on the pitch.
“Cricket’s a lovely game … don’t you think so?”
Now he looked at her; but doubtfully, from the height of his fourteen male years; and did not reply.
“Do you play?”
This was a false move, she felt it at once. Her question seemed to offend him. “Should rather think I did!” he answered with a haughty air.
Weakly she hastened to retract her words. “Oh, I meant much—if you played much?”
“Comes to the same thing I guess,” said the boy—he had not yet reached the age of obligatory politeness.
“It