the joint rolled
up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox's direction, cut the meat where
it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on
sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and
Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn't; yes, you did"
type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in
it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.

"It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere's my motto."

"Perhaps it does make life more human."

"Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip,
they remember you from year's end to year's end."

"Have you been in the East?"

"Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to
Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly
distributed, help to keep one's memory green. But you, of course, think
this shockingly cynical. How's your discussion society getting on? Any
new Utopias lately?"

"No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I've already told you once. Do
you know of any houses?"

"Afraid I don't."

"Well, what's the point of being practical if you can't find two
distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large
rooms, and plenty of them."

"Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for
her!"

"What's that, father?"

"I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can't."

"Percy, do you know of anything?"

"I can't say I do," said Mr. Cahill.

"How like you! You're never any good."

"Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!"

"Well, you aren't. Miss Schlegel, is he?"

The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret,
swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a
little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased
her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about
cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated
tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than
the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly
that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for
imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones.
Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I'll cable
out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emper