thin china, painted with sprawling
dragons in yellow and green; the food, in spite of Mrs Pansey's report,
was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came from the stock laid down
by the father of the hostess in the days when dignitaries of the Church
knew what good wine was. It is true that a neat pair of brass scales was
placed beside Miss Whichello, but she used them to weigh out such
portions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, and did not
mar her hospitality by interfering with the appetites of her guests. The
repast was tempting, the company congenial, and the two young men
enjoyed themselves greatly. Miss Whichello was an entertainer worth
knowing, if only for her cook.

'Mab, my dear,' cried the lively old lady, 'I am ashamed of your
appetite. Don't you feel better for your morning's rest?'

'Much better, thank you, aunty, but it is too hot to eat.'

'Try some salad, my love; it is cool and green, and excellent for the
blood. If I had my way, people should eat more green stuff than they
do.'

'Like so many Nebuchadnezzars,' suggested Cargrim, always scriptural.

'Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr Cargrim; although we
need not go on all fours to eat them as he did.'

'So many people would need to revert to their natural characters of
animals if that custom came in,' said George, smiling.

'A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a portion of the nature
of some animal,' observed Cargrim, 'especially women.'

'Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,' cried Mab, with an arch look at her aunt.

'She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyaena, my dear.'

'Oh, aunty, what a trinity!'

'I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are rooks,' said
George.

'No doubt, captain; and you soldiers are lions.'

'Aunty is a Jenny Wren!'

'And Mab is a white peacock,' said Miss Whichello, with a nod.

'Captain Pendle, protect me,' laughed Miss Arden. 'I decline to be
called a peacock.'

'You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.'

'Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you!'

While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these zoological
comparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to the
adventure of the previous night. 'The man who attacked you was certainly
a wolf,' he said decisively.

'Who was the man?' asked Miss Whichello, carefully weighing herself some
cheese.

'Some tramp who had been in the wars,' replied George, carelessly; 'a