“It’s going splendidly,” said Tom in a stage whisper; “they all seem to be enjoying it.”
They certainly were—for as each gradually took in the situation, and received his cue from his neighbour, an unwonted air of humour permeated the room.
A few hoity-toity persons of course felt outraged, and would have ordered their carriages had there been any one to order them from. The honest Raffles was, to tell the truth, secretly busy, on a signal from Tom, preparing for the banquet in the dining-room, and no other servant was to be seen.
“My dear,” said Mrs Pottinger, in a severely audible voice to her husband, “I wish to return home. Will you get our carriage? My ideas of amusement do not correspond with those of the young people.”
“Oh, don’t go yet!” said Tom, with beaming face, for he had caught sight of Raffles’ powdered wig at the door; “there’s some grub ready in the next room. It would have been ready before, only the herrings—”
“Tom,” said Jill, “there’s the Bishop just come. He couldn’t come for Roger’s birthday, you know.”
“How do you do, Bishop?” said Tom, grasping the new arrival by the hand. “Jolly you could come this time. I was just saying there’s some grub in the next room. Jill, Raff had better ring up on the gong, tell him.”
Raffles accordingly sounded an alarm on the gong, which brought the company to attention.
“Supper!” cried Tom encouragingly, and led the way, allowing the company generally to sort themselves.
The Duke behaved nobly that night. He gallantly gave his arm to Jill, and asked the Bishop to bring in one of his daughters. This saved Miss Oliphant’s party from the collapse which threatened it. Every one took the cue from the great people. Even Mrs Pottinger accepted the arm of the curate, and the ardent youths, who had all arrived under the delusion that Miss Rosalind was the hostess, forgot their disappointment, and vowed to see the youngsters through with it.