"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.
"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly.
"Miss Beauchamp, you really must," from Taffy, decides the point.
Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with reluctance, and sails down upon the quartette below, followed by Sir Guy.
"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it."
"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod."
"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian.
"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called 'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?"
"I do: so you don't take any bobs off my wages," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot see how all this made the poor man odious."
"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was unmistakably dirty, and——"