"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses them most. Have I relieved your mind?"
"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling."
"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she is always tender where Taffy is concerned.
"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to lift it to one's lips with both hands."
"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup."
"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment; whereupon they all laugh.
"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my dear, will you ring the bell?"
Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their spirits are at zero.
"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his feet with sudden desperation.