We had quite a party at Hatherley House that May. There were Bob, and Sol, and Jack Hawthorne, and Mr. Nicholas Cronin; then there were Miss Maberly, and Elsie, and mother, and myself. On an emergency we could always muster half a dozen visitors from the houses round, so as to have an audience when charades or private theatricals were attempted. Mr. Cronin, an easy-going athletic young Oxford man, proved to be a great acquisition, having wonderful powers of organization and execution. Jack was not nearly as lively as he used to be, in fact we unanimously accused him of being in love; at which he looked as silly as young men usually do on such occasions, but did not attempt to deny the soft impeachment.
“What shall we do to-day?” said Bob one morning. “Can anybody make a suggestion?”
“Drag the pond,” said Mr. Cronin.
“Haven’t men enough,” said Bob; “anything else?”
“We must get up a sweepstakes for the Derby,” remarked Jack.
“O, there’s plenty of time for that. It isn’t run till the week after next. Anything else?”
“Lawn-tennis,” said Sol, dubiously.
“Bother lawn-tennis!”
“You might make a picnic to Hatherley Abbey,” said I.
“Capital!” cried Mr. Cronin. “The very thing. What do you think, Bob?”