“They don’t look very cruel,” he thought, peeping through the crack of the parlour door and eyeing them anxiously as they sat round the tea-table, “still I’m glad that I shall have my tea by myself.”
It certainly was a very happy party that was gathered at Mrs. Busson’s well-spread board, at which the hostess was presiding, helped by the very efficient “nursery-maid-in-disguise.”
Mrs. Busson was quite in her element, flitting round the table, and encouraging her guests to try one dish after the other. But it was hard work to satisfy their curiosity on a hundred points, as well as their healthy appetites.
Such a shower of miscellaneous questions assailed her patient ears:
“Has the grass been cut yet?”
“Dear! yes, the mowing machines have been at work all this day in the long meadow, and there will be plenty of new-mown grass to make hay of to-morrow.”
“And who’s asking about butterflies? Oh! yes, there’s plenty of them.”
“Ah! but are there any Hipparchia Janira out yet?” asked Andrew.
“Never heard of that kind of creature,” was the reply, whilst Phil interrupted with, “Oh! he only means an old cabbage-butterfly.”
“That’s all you know,” began Andrew, indignantly, “but I’ll tell—”