"So is Florence. You and she, I foresee, will have a stand-up fight for it at least once a week. Poor cook! I suppose she will have to make two ice puddings instead of one for the future."
"If there is anything on earth I love, it is an ice pudding."
"Not better than me, I trust."
"Far, far better."
"Take it away instantly, Martin; Miss Chesney mustn't have any more: it don't agree with her."
At this Martin smiles demurely and deferentially, and presents the coveted pudding to Miss Chesney; whereat Miss Chesney makes a little triumphant grimace at Cyril and helps herself as she loves herself.
Dinner is over. The servants,—oh, joy!—have withdrawn: everybody has eaten as much fruit as they feel is good for them. Lady Chetwoode looks at Lilian and half rises from her seat.
"It is hardly worth while your leaving us this evening, mother," Guy says, hastily: "I must so soon be running away if I wish to catch the train coming in."
"Very well,"—re-seating herself: "we shall break through rules, and stay with you for this one night. You won't have your coffee until your return?"