"Well, Brian has been so good of late," said Madge, "that I had to
reward him, so I knew that nothing would please him better than to play
host."

"Certainly," said Brian, rousing himself out of a fit of abstraction,
"especially when one has such charming visitors."

Madge laughed at this, and made a little grimace.

"If your tea is only equal to your compliments," she said lightly, "I'm
sure papa will forgive us for dragging him away from his club."

"Papa will forgive anything," murmured Mr. Frettlby, tilting his hat
over his eyes, "so long as he gets somewhere out of the sun. I can't
say I care about playing the parts of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego
in the fiery furnace of a Melbourne hot day."

"There now, papa is quite a host in himself," said Madge mischievously,
as, the carriage drew up at Mrs. Sampson's door.

"No, you are wrong," said Brian, as he alighted and helped her out; "I
am the host in myself this time."

"If there is one thing I hate above another," observed Miss Frettlby,
calmly, "it's a pun, and especially a bad one."

Mrs. Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival of her
lodger's guests, and did not hesitate to express her astonishment.

"Bein' taken by surprise," she said, with an apologetic cackle, "it
ain't to be suppose as miraculs can be performed with regard to
cookin', the fire havin' gone out, not bein' kept alight on account of
the 'eat of the day, which was that 'ot as never was, tho', to be sure,
bein' a child in the early days, I remember it were that 'ot as my
sister's aunt was in the 'abit of roastin' her jints in the sun."

After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors in doubt
whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal or to her sister's
aunt or to herself, Mrs. Sampson crackled away downstairs to get things
ready.

"What a curious thing that landlady of yours is, Brian," said Madge,
from the depths of a huge arm-chair. "I believe she's a grasshopper
from the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Oh, no, she's a woman," said Mr. Frettlby, cynically. "You can tell
that by the length of her tongue."

"A popular error, papa," retorted Madge, sharply. "I know plenty of men
who talk far more than any woman."

"I hope I'll never meet them, then," said Mr. Frettlby, "for if I did I
should be inclined to agree with De Quincey on murder as a fine art."

Brian winced at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, and saw with
relief that she was not paying