Peter touched his hat gravely, murmured, "Thank ye, ma'am," and drove away. At the foot of the lawn the Booth-Higby peacock—supposedly a decoration for the Italian garden, but given to wandering out of bounds—trailed its plumage across his path. Peter shied his ten cents at the bird's head, with the muttered wish that the coin had been large enough really to accomplish damage.
The day of the garden party showed a clear sky above, and Peter was up with the dawn and at work. Miss Ethel had appointed him her right-hand man, and though he had the entire stable and house force to help him, he found the responsibility wearing. He was feeling what it was to be a Captain of Industry. He superintended the raising of a supper tent on the lawn, strung coloured electric bulbs among the branches of the trees, saw the furniture moved out of the drawing-room and a hundred camp chairs moved in. He spent the afternoon shifting scenery for the dress rehearsal; but finally, close upon six, he shoved Plymouth Rock back into place for the first tableau, and, with a sigh of relief, turned toward the kitchen. He felt that he had earned a fifteen-minutes' chat with Annie.
But fresh trouble awaited him. He found Mrs. Carter and Nora in anxious consultation. The ice-cream had not come; and the expressman, who had already met three trains, said that he could not deliver it now until morning.
Mrs. Carter pounced upon Peter.
"Is Miss Ethel through with you? Then drive to the station immediately and meet the six-twenty train. If it isn't on that, stop at Gunther's and tell them they will have to make me seven gallons of ice-cream before ten o'clock to-night. It's disgraceful! I shall never engage Perry to cater again. And tell the expressman that I consider him very disobliging," she threw after him.
An hour and a half later he dumped three kegs of ice and brine on the back veranda, and was turning away, cheered by the near hope of his long-postponed supper when Annie hailed him from the kitchen window.
"Hey, Pete! Wait a minute. Miss Ethel said, as soon as you got back, for me to send you to the library."
"What are they wantin' now?" he growled. "I'll be glad when that bloomin' young lord takes himself home to Ireland where he b'longs. Between picnics an' ridin' parties an' clambakes an' theatricals, I ain't had a chance to sit down since he come."
Annie shoved a chair toward him.
"Then now's your chance, for he's gone. A telegram came calling him away, an' Mr. Harry's just back from motoring him to the station."