After dinner on the third day all is nearly completed. A few more leaves, a few more flowers, a wreath or two to be distributed here and there, is all that remains to be done.
"I hate decorating in October," Cecil says. "There is such a dearth of flowers, and the gardeners get so greedy about the house plants. Every blossom looks as if it had been made the most of."
"Well, I don't know," replies Mr. Grainger, squeezing his glass into his eye with much difficulty, it being a new importation and hard to manage. When he has altered all his face into an appalling grin, and completely blocked the sight of one eye, he goes on affably: "I think all this—er—very charming."
"No? Do you? I'm so glad. Do you know I believe you have wonderful taste? The way in which you tied that last bunch of trailing ivy had something about it absolutely artistic."
"If it hadn't fallen to pieces directly afterward, which rather spoiled the effect," says Sir Penthony, with an unkind smile.
"Did it? How sad! But then the idea remains, and that is everything. Now, Mr. Grainger, please stand here—(will you move a little bit, Sir Penthony? Thanks)—just here—while I go up this ladder to satisfy myself about these flowers. By the bye,"—pausing on one of the rungs to look back,—"suppose I were to fall? Do you think you could catch me?"
"I only wish you would give me the opportunity of trying," replies he, weakly.
"Beastly puppy!" mutters Sir Penthony, under his breath.
"Perhaps I shall, if you are good. Now look. Are they straight? Do they look well?" asks Cecil.
"Very sweet," replies Mr. Grainger.