Lady Blitherington ensconced herself in the other arm-chair, while Squiff, who has a fair baritone voice, sang us ‘Father O’Flynn’ with more vigour than accuracy.
Just before ten an English waiter—born in Hamburg—appeared with what Ophelia persisted in calling ‘a dish of tea,’ and that good soul disappeared in search of Jacob’s own saucer in order that he too might enjoy a little light refreshment before retiring to the elaborately quilted basket awaiting him in her room.
I parted from Freddy and Squiff at Carfax, and on entering our rooms found Reggie and the Pilot enveloped in a positive cloud of smoke, discussing everything in general and nothing in particular.
‘Accrington’s people are coming up on Thursday, Martha,’ said Reggie, as I entered the room.
‘Rot, Reggie,’ said the Pilot, ‘You mean Sybil Accrington is coming; I don’t suppose you care whether her father and mother come here or remain in Liverchester.’
‘It seems to me, Reggie,’ I said, ‘that what with Maisie and Sybil Accrington and others, your hands will be pretty full this week.’
‘The pressing problem of the moment,’ said the Pilot, gravely, as he spread himself in front of the fireplace, ‘is, how many pounds of strawberries are required to feed five healthy English girls, three elderly ladies, two lapdogs, and last but not least, eight undergraduates. Freddy’s arranged a picnic for Sunday, and left me to cater for it with his usual cheek.’
‘Which is his usual cheek, Pilot?’ asked Reggie in his most irritating manner.