orge," she said in a confidential undertone, "keep
the pot a-boiling." And then audibly, "I say, will you both old trot
about with tea a bit?"

"Only too delighted to TROT for you, Mrs. Ponderevo," said the
clergyman, becoming fearfully expert and in his elements; "only too
delighted."

I found we were near a rustic table, and that the housemaid was behind
us in a suitable position to catch us on the rebound with the tea
things.

"Trot!" repeated the clergyman to me, much amused; "excellent
expression!" And I just saved him from the tray as he turned about.

We handed tea for a while....

"Give 'em cakes," said my aunt, flushed, but well in hand. "Helps 'em to
talk, George. Always talk best after a little nourishment. Like throwing
a bit of turf down an old geyser."

She surveyed the gathering with a predominant blue eye and helped
herself to tea.

"They keep on going stiff," she said in an undertone.... "I've done my
best."

"It's been a huge success," I said encouragingly.

"That boy has had his legs crossed in that position and hasn't spoken
for ten minutes. Stiffer and stiffer. Brittle. He's beginning a dry
cough--always a bad sign, George.... Walk 'em about, shall I?--rub their
noses with snow?"

Happily she didn't. I got myself involved with the gentlewoman from next
door, a pensive, languid-looking little woman with a low voice, and fell
talking; our topic, Cats and Dogs, and which it was we liked best.

"I always feel," said the pensive little woman, "that there's something
about a dog--A cat hasn't got it."

"Yes," I found myself admitting with great enthusiasm, "there is
something. And yet again--"

"Oh! I know there's something about a cat, too. But it isn't the same."

"Not quite the same," I admitted; "but still it's something."

"Ah! But such a different something!"

"More sinuous."

"Much more."

"Ever so much more."

"It makes all the difference, don't you think?"

"Yes," I said, "ALL."

She glanced at me gravely and sighed a long, deeply felt "Yes." A long
pause.

The thing seemed to me to amount to a stale-mate. Fear came into my
heart and much perplexity.

"The--er--Roses," I said. I felt like a drowning man. "Those
roses--don't you think they are--very beautiful flowers?"

"Aren't they!" she agreed gently. "There seems to be something in
roses--something--I don't know how to express it."

"Something," I said helpfully.

"Yes," she said, "something. Isn't there?"