“Nonsense, Burge.”
“Oh, but it is, Mr Canninge. I know what’s what as well as most men; and, look here, sir, I mean them to thoroughly enjoy themselves to-day.”
“That’s right, and I’ll help you.”
“You will, sir?” cried the giver of the feast.
“To be sure I will; get up some races and that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got it all down on a piece of paper here, sir; only you wait. Now, I must go.”
“He is really very vulgar, George,” said the lady; “but there is a bluffness about him that I do like after all. But hadn’t we better go and speak to Miss Burge?”
“Come along then. Oh, there are the Lambents with her now.”
The Canninges went up to little Miss Burge, the lady saluting her graciously, and the young squire very heartily; and then salutations were being exchanged with the Misses Lambent, Beatrice looking bright and handsome as George Canninge shook hands in a frank gentlemanly way, as a deafening clamour arose behind them, and, turning, there was the host wielding a great dinner-bell with all his might.
As he ceased, the children cheered, the band struck up, and the little processions were marched past the company on the terrace, the boys to one end of the marquee, the girls to the other, Hazel now at the head of her troop, looking bright and animated, excited slightly by the scene, and being admired more than she knew by those whom she passed.