e! Mrs.
Ponsonby--_said_--there--was--cake--and--that I--could--have some!"
each word very emphatic, judicial and accusative. Then followed a
rattling tail to the sentence: "And if you have eaten it all, it was
horridly greedy in you, and I hope it will disagree with you--so I
do!"

Bridget now came forward and addressed French.

"There ain't so much as a cheese-paring left in the house, Mr. French.
Mrs. Ponsonby's gone off at a moment's notice, and I'm off myself
to-morrow; and there sits that boy asking for cake! He's been here now
the better part of an hour, trackin' mud over the clean carpets till
I'm a'most ready to cry."

Dick seized his hat and moved sulkily to the door, hurling back
threats as he walked.

"Just you wait! We'll see--you think I won't tell, but I will!"

French perceived that the case was to be carried to the Supreme Court
for Deena's decision, and to save her annoyance at a time when he felt
sure she was both tired and busy, he made a proposition to the heir of
the Sheltons that established his everlasting popularity with that
young person.

"Come home with me, Dicky," he said, "and if my people haven't any
cake, I can at least give you all the hothouse grapes you can eat, and
some to carry home. How does that strike you?"

"Done!" cried Dicky, slipping his hand under Stephen's arm, and, after
one horrid grimace at Bridget, he allowed himself to be led away.

The sun had nearly disappeared when they reached French's house, which
was a little outside of the town, and he reflected that he must
quickly redeem his promise, and dispatch his young companion home
before the darkness should make his absence a cause of alarm. He rang
the bell by way of summoning a servant, and then, opening the door
with his latchkey, he invited Dicky to enter.

It was a most cheerful interior. The staircase, wide and
old-fashioned, faced you at the far end of the hall, and on the first
landing a high-arched window was glowing with the level rays of the
setting sun. A wood fire blazed on the hearth, and on the walls the
portraits of all the Frenches, who for two hundred years had made a
point of recording their individualities in oil, looked down to
welcome each arrival.

Dicky, who wore no overcoat, presented his nether boy to the fire,
while he gazed at the portraits with a frown. He thought them
extremely plain.

A servant came from some hidden door, took his master's coat and hat
and received an order