THE White Heather of course could afford to pick and choose; not so certain smaller clubs we played against, whose members were sometimes more competent than socially satisfactory.

Once there was a celebrated match at Falconhurst, on which occasion Meriel’s father, Mr J. Talbot, gave a sumptuous luncheon to both elevens in a marquee, and the visiting team, whose behaviour had been rather rowdy all morning, now began hacking strands off the beautiful ferns that stood along the centre of the narrow tables, the idea being to gain easier access to the lobster salad. At this point Meriel rose in her place, and no one who had the privilege of hearing her utter the words: “Leave those ferns alone, please!” could question her fitness for the posts of command she has since occupied.

When golf arrived in England, the cricket mania, which involved a certain amount of restlessness, was superseded as far as I was concerned, but it was a very jolly mania while it lasted.