Uncle James, however, had a bad cold himself that morning, and described himself as very much indisposed.
"I went out of doors last night before retiring," he explained at luncheon, "tempted by the glorious moonlight and the balmy air; but before I returned the night had changed and become chilly, and unfortunately the side-door had shut itself, and every one was in bed, so I could not get in. I threw pebbles up at Grace Mary's window, but failed to rouse her, she being somewhat deaf. I also knocked and rang, but no one answered, so I was obliged to shelter in the barn. Harriet, however, appeared finally. She—er—gets the men's breakfasts, and—er—the kitchen-window—" But here Uncle James was seized with a sudden fit of sneezing, and the connection between the men's breakfasts and the kitchen-window was never explained. "She is an extremely good girl, is Harriet," he proceeded as soon as he could speak; "up at four o'clock every morning."
"I wish to goodness my trollop was," said Lady Benyon. "She gets later every day. Where did you go last night?"
"Oh—I had been loitering among the tombs, so to speak," he answered largely.
Beth was eating cold beef stolidly, but without much appetite because of her cold, and also because there was hot chicken, and Uncle James had not given her her choice. Uncle James kept looking at her. He found it hard to let her alone, but she gave him no cause of offence for some time. Her little nose was troublesome, however, and at last she sniffed. Uncle James looked at Lady Benyon.
"Have you observed," he said, "that when a child has a cold she never has a pocket-handkerchief?"
Beth produced a clean one with a flourish, and burst out laughing.
"What's the matter, Puck?" Lady Benyon asked, beaming already in anticipation.
"Oh, nothing. Only I said Uncle James would say that if I sniffed. Didn't I, Mildred?"
But Mildred, too wary to support her, looked down demurely.