She wore top-boots, but this is a trifle, for she habitually wore
top-boots. Upon them, and beneath the short skirt of a red flannel
petticoat, she had indued a pair of cricket-guards. Above the red
flannel petticoat came, frank and unashamed, an ample pair of stays;
above them, the front of a yet ampler chemise and a yellow bandanna
kerchief tied in a sailor's knot; above these, a middle-aged face
full of character and not without a touch of moustache on the upper
lip; an aquiline nose, grey eyes that apologized to nobody, a broad
brow to balance a broad, square jaw, and, on the top of all, a
square-topped beaver hat. So stood Miss Belcher, with a cricket-bat
under her arm; an Englishwoman, owner of one of England's "stately
homes"; a lady amenable to few laws save of her own making, and to no
man save--remotely--the King, whose health she drank sometimes in
port and sometimes in gin-and-water.
"Good morning, Jack! Sorry to cut you over with that off-drive; but
you shouldn't have come in without knocking. Eh? Is that Harry
Brooks?" Her face grew grave for a moment before she turned upon Mr.
Rogers that smile which, if usually latent and at the best not
entirely feminine, was her least dubitable charm.
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