"Oh! yes. I didn't really listen, but I kept counting a hundred and then saying, 'How very interesting'. And then counting another hundred, and saying it again. You can't think what a good idea it was. It was like my aunt's plan of counting imaginary geese to send yourself to sleep; which, by the way, always keeps me awake the whole night."
"I know. My mother favours that plan too, but she always call them sheep. She makes them go through a gate, she says; I tried it once, but my gate kept swinging-to and squeezing the sheep, till I was quite wild with anxiety and consequently more wakeful than ever."
Isabel laughed. "But I punished my last old gentleman," she said.
"What did you do?"
"When I found that my partner for Saturday's dinner was older than any of his predecessors, my usually amiable spirit rebelled."
"And what form did the rebellion take?"
"I discovered that by breathing hard, when my old gentleman wasn't looking, I could make the candle-shade in front of us catch fire whenever I liked. So when there came any course that he was particularly keen on, I blew with my mouth, and the shade blazed. My poor partner had to save the women and children by extinguishing the fire; and while he was engaged in this act of heroism, the footman—thinking he had finished—removed his plate, and he saw its dainties no more."
Paul laughed outright.
"Have you ever noticed," asked Isabel, as the plates were being changed, "that the bit of toast underneath a hors d'œuvre—which, mark you, is appointed to be cut by a little silver fork—is always of a consistency which would defy a steam-hammer?"
"Is it?"