"Of course," said Dick slily, "she's singular in any case:"
"So very odd," giggled Miss Cassy, who was making the tea, "I don't mean Jellicks, but what you say--puns you know--like what's his name, Byron, had in his burlesques--not the Don Juan one you know, but the other--so odd, wasn't he?"
"Not half so odd as Miss Cassy," whispered Dick to Reginald, but the latter young gentleman, being engaged with Una, did not reply.
"I don't know if I ought to eat muffins," said Mrs. Larcher darkly, as Miss Busky bounced up to her with a plate of those edibles. "So very buttery--make me bilious--I've been bilious often, have I not Eleanora Gwendoline?"
"Yes, often, Mama," assented the obedient Pumpkin.
"I hope you're better now?" observed Beaumont politely, seeing the lady's eyes fixed upon him.
"Ah, yes, now," sighed Mrs. Larcher, stirring her tea, "but will it last? the question is will it endure? my affliction is so capricious--I'm very weak--quite a Hindoo."
"Why a Hindoo, my dear?" asked the vicar, rather puzzled.
"Because they are weak--die if you look at them," explained Mrs. Larcher, "rice of course--they live on it and there's no nourishment in it."
"By the way, Miss Challoner, how is the Squire?" asked Beaumont, who was leaning up against the mantelpiece looking rather bored.