At this point I rolled on to my stomach so as to appear unaware of their conversation, which was even more entertaining than I had hoped.  Radley turned round and, having seen me, said something in an undertone to Chappy.  I imagine he drew attention to my proximity, for Chappy laughed out:  “O law!  Glory be!” and continued in a lower voice.

My sense of honour was not so nice that it prevented me from trying to catch the rest of their conversation.  They had opened so promisingly:  and now Chappy was getting quite enthusiastic, and the rapid motion of his lips was causing the cigar to be so restless that it constantly changed its position and scattered ash down his expanse of white waistcoat.  I had no need, however, to strain my ears, for Chappy was incapable of speaking softly for any length of time.  I caught him proceeding: 

“He’s clever, his masters say, and got a big future.  Handsome little rogue, too.  He’s none of your ordinary boys.  He’s a twig from the cedar-top.”

For two reasons—­first, that this was a fine rhetorical flourish on which to close; and secondly, that his breath was giving out—­Chappy concluded his remarks, swept his waistcoat, and re-arranged his position in the deck-chair.  I was feeling horribly anxious lest I should die without knowing whether it was of Doe or of me that he had spoken, when Radley cleared up the matter by saying: 

“He’s playing a straight bat, isn’t he?”

So it was Doe.  Well, he was clever, I supposed, but not as clever as all that.

“Straight bat, rather!” agreed Chappy.

“Does he play a straight bat in all things?”

“My dear fellow, what the la-diddly-um do you mean?”

“Why, he seems to be a bit of an actor—­to do things because he wants to appear in a favourable light.”

“I say, that’s doocid ungenerous of you,” said Chappy.  “And, by jove, if he likes to imagine himself very noble and heroic, and tries to act accordingly, very fine of him.”

“Very,” endorsed Radley, cryptically.

“I’ve a great liking for him.”

“So have I.”

“Good.  Now, what first attracted you—­his good looks or his virtues?”

“Neither.  His vices.”

“Here, hang me, Radley,” said Chappy, “you want examining.  You’re not only a shocking bad conversationalist, but also a little mad.  That’s your doctor’s opinion; that’ll be a guinea, please.”

After this I ceased to listen.  The talk was all about Doe, and rather silly.  And I wanted to think over the little fact, which Chappy had let fall, that certain ladies called me the “Gem.”  I chewed a blade of grass and ruminated.  That flattering little disclosure balanced the weight of Fillet’s dislike.  I wished it could be brought to his knowledge; and I imagined conversations in which he was told.  This was the first time that it dawned upon me that there was anything in my looks to admire.  Pennybet I conceived to be