"Sandy says he hasn't left any," resumed Nan calmly.
"At least, only small ones. We mustn't blame him. What are they made of, Kitty? They'd beguile a fasting saint—let alone a material person like Sandy."
"Salmon paste and cress," replied Mrs. Seymour mildly.
"I bet any money its salmon and shrimp paste," declared Sandy. "And it's the vulgar shrimp which appeals."
He helped himself unostentatiously to another sandwich.
"Your eighth," commented Nan.
"It's the shrimpness of them," he murmured plaintively. "I can't help it."
"Well, draw the line somewhere," she returned. "If we're going to play duets after tea and you continue to absorb sandwiches at your present rate of consumption, you'll soon be incapable of detecting the inherent difference between a quaver and a semibreve."
"Then I shall count," said Sandy.
"No."