"A speech! A lecture! Old Yovil has let us all in for it. You can't say no to him somehow—he sort of works you up. Lancaster's swearing like the wind round the Craffrone tower. He says he must have been out of his mind to say he'd do it, but he can't go back now. It's to be on the third. Choose any subject you like—write it up—no notes, though—and spout forth in his drawing-room to a long-suffering audience. There're six of us going in for it, and a ripping edition of all the immortal Billy's plays for the winner."
"Which will be you," annotated Nell with conviction.
"Not it! There's one chap—Morley—poetical sort of ass, who wears his hair too long—he'll beat me in a canter, my dear, not to mention the others."
"I'll come and hear you, won't I, Denis?"
"Wish you could! But there won't be any ladies. Only us and Yovil, you know."
After luncheon a maid came to ask if the Atom might go and have tea with Stewart. Sheila Pat, her Pearl clasped beneath one arm, and a spelling-book beneath the other, interviewed her in the hall.
"I'm not comin', thank you, Mary."
The maid hesitated. "If you could, miss—"
"I have reasons of my own for not comin', Mary."
"Very well, miss, only—he's such a dear little boy, and you'd brighten him up like."