And so they stroll off together, mighty prelate and humble country
parson, once again happy Harrow boys.

And now, before Eton goes in, we must climb on to the Trent coach. Fluff
and his brother Cosmo, the Eton bowler, are lunching in other company,
but we shall find Colonel Egerton and the Caterpillar and Warde; so the
Hill slightly outnumbers the Plain, as the duke puts it. Next to the
duchess sits Mrs. Verney. The duke is torn nearly in two between his
desire that Fluff should make runs and that Cosmo, the Etonian, should
take wickets. His Eton sons regard him as a traitor, a "rat" and Colonel
Egerton gravely offers him the corn-flowers out of his coat.

"You can laugh," the duke says seriously, "but when I see what Harrow has
done for Esme, I'm almost sorry"--he looks at his youngest son (nearly,
but not quite, as delicate-looking as Fluff used to be)--"I'm almost
sorry that I didn't send Alastair there also."

Alastair smiles contemptuously. "If you had," he says, "I should have
never spoken to you again. Esme is a forgiving chap, but you've wrecked
his life. At least, that's my opinion."

After luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. The ladies want to see
the pitch, and, shall we add, to display their wonderful frocks. The
enclosure at Ascot on Cup Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as this.
The Caterpillar, sly dog, has secured Iris Warde, and looks uncommonly
pleased with himself and his companion; a smart pair, but smart pairs are
common as gooseberries. It is the year of picture hats and Gainsborough
dresses.

"England at its best," says Miss Iris.

"And in its best," the Caterpillar replies solemnly.

Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter ought to be. She tells
the Caterpillar that when she was a small girl with only threepence a
week pocket-money, she used to save a penny a week for twelve weeks
preceding the match, so as to be able to put a shilling into the plate on
Sunday _if Harrow won_.

"And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and wear light blue after all,"
growls the Caterpillar.

"Never!" says Miss Iris.

Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you see a white figure or
two. The Elevens have finished lunch, and are mixing with the crowd.
Scaife is talking with a famous Old Carthusian, one of the finest living
exponents of cricket, sometime an "International" at football, and a
D.S.O. The great man is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an
All-England player