'Did the lowness come from his being a painter, father?' I asked.

'Really, child, you are puzzling me. But I have observed you now for
some weeks, and I quite believe that you would make one of the best
rubbers who ever held a ball. I am going to Salisbury next week, and
you shall then make your _début_.'

This was in the midst of a very severe winter we had some years ago,
when all Europe was under a coating of ice.

'But, father,' I said, 'shan't we find it rather cold?'

'Well,' said my father, with a bland smile, 'I will not pretend that
Salisbury Cathedral is particularly warm in this weather, but in
winter I always rub in knee-caps and mittens. I will tell Hodder to
knit you a full set at once.'

'But, father,' I said, 'Tom Wynne tells me that rubbing is the most
painful of all occupations. He even goes so far sometimes as to say
that it was the exhaustion of rubbing for you which turned him to
drink.'

'Nothing of the kind,' said my father. 'All that Tom needed to make
him a good rubber was enthusiasm. I am strongly of opinion that
without enthusiasm rubbing is of all occupations the most irksome,
except perhaps for the quadrumana (who seem more adapted for this
exercise), the most painful for the spine, the most cramping for the
thighs, the most numbing for the fingers. It is a profession, Henry,
demanding, above every other, enthusiasm in the operator. Now Tom's