y minds a little thing like that. We
can't be stilted and formal. It's ever so much more friendly to relax
and be chummy."

Here we rejoined the others, and I was left with a leaden foreboding
of grewsome things in store. I knew what manner of man Ukridge was
when he relaxed and became chummy. Friendships of years' standing had
failed to survive the test.

For the time being, however, all went well. In his role of lecturer he
offended no one, and Phyllis and her father behaved admirably. They
received the strangest theories without a twitch of the mouth.

"Ah," the professor would say, "now, is that really so? Very
interesting, indeed."

Only once, when Ukridge was describing some more than usually original
device for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slight
spasm disturb Phyllis's look of attentive reverence.

"And you have really had no previous experience in chicken farming?"
she said.

"None," said Ukridge, beaming through his glasses, "not an atom. But I
can turn my hand to anything, you know. Things seem to come naturally
to me, somehow."

"I see," said Phyllis.

It was while matters were progressing with such beautiful smoothness
that I observed the square form of the hired retainer approaching us.
Somehow--I cannot say why--I had a feeling that he came with bad news.
Perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me as
ominous.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Ukridge, sir."

Ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feeding
of fowls. The interruption annoyed him.

"Well, Beale," he said, "what is it?"

"That there cat, sir, what came to-day."

"O Beale," cried Mrs. Ukridge in agitation, "_what_ has happened?"

"Having something to say to the missus--"

"What has happened? O Beale, don't say that Edwin has been hurt? Where
is he? Oh, _poor_ Edwin!"

"Having something to say to the missus--"

"If Bob has bitten him, I hope he had his nose _well_ scratched," said
Mrs. Ukridge vindictively.

"Having something to say to the missus," resumed the hired retainer
tranquilly, "I went into the kitchen ten minutes back. The cat was
sitting on the mat."

Beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book I had
read in my infancy. I wish I could remember its title. It was a
well-written book.

"Yes, Beale, yes?" said Mrs. Ukridge. "Oh, do go on!"

"'Halloo, puss,' I says to him, 'and 'ow are you, sir?' 'Be careful,'
says the missus. ''E's that timid