"I will help you in any way I can," says Dora, with her usual gentle amiability.
"You would make a capital Beatrice, Bebe," says Marmaduke. "We might have a good scene from 'Much Ado About Nothing.' Who will be Benedick? Now, don't all speak at once."
"I think it would suit me," says Chips, very modestly.
We all laugh heartily.
"You grow modest, Mr. Thornton," says Sir Mark. "I fear you must be ill. Try a little of this honey; you will find it excellent."
"No, thanks. I feel I shall be able to pull through now until luncheon."
"Let us go into the library and arrange everything," I suggest, eagerly; and we all rise and go there.
By degrees, as the afternoon advances, the men show symptoms of fatigue and drop off one by one, while we women still keep together to discuss the all-engrossing idea.
Curious odds and ends of old-world finery are dragged from remote closets and brought to light. Clothes that once adorned Marmaduke's ancestors are now draped around young white arms and necks, and draw forth peals of laughter from the lookers-on.
"But we must have an audience," suggests: Bebe, at length, rather blankly, stopping short, with her hands in the air, from which hangs down an ancient embroidered robe.