The ceremony was gone through.

The softly-shadowed differences of a grand manner addressed to ladies, and to males, were exquisitely accomplished by the Countess de Saldar.
'Harrington?
Harrington ?' her quick ear caught on the mouth of Squire Uplift, scanning Evan.
Her accent was very foreign, as she said aloud: 'We are entirely strangers to your game--your creecket.

My brother and myself are scarcely English.

Nothing save diplomacy are we adepts in!' 'You must be excessively dangerous, madam,' said Sir George, hat in air.
'Even in that, I fear, we are babes and sucklings, and might take many a lesson from you.

Will you instruct me in your creecket?
What are they doing now?
It seems very unintelligible--indistinct--is it not ?' Inasmuch as Farmer Broadmead and Master Nat Hodges were surrounded by a clamorous mob, shouting both sides of the case, as if the loudest and longest-winded were sure to wrest a favourable judgement from those two infallible authorities on the laws of cricket, the noble game was certainly in a state of indistinctness.
The squire came forward to explain, piteously entreated not to expect too much from a woman's inapprehensive wits, which he plainly promised (under eyes that had melted harder men) he would not.