e Antoinette elegance.

"By Jove, Aggie, it's too beastly hot here for words," growled he for
the hundredth time. "I think we'd better move into your grandfather's
rooms."

"Now, Deppy, don't let the Brownes talk you into everything they
suggest," she complained, determined to be stubborn to the end. "They
know entirely too much about the place already; please don't let them
know you as intimately."

"That's all very good, my dear, but you know quite as well as I that we
made a frightful mistake in choosing these rooms. It _is_ cooler on that
side of the house. I'm not too proud to be comfortable, don't you know.
Have you had a look at your grandfather's rooms?"

She was silent for a long time, pondering. "No, I haven't, Deppy, but I
don't mind going over there now with you--just for a look. We can do it
without letting them see us, you know."

Just as they were ready to depart stealthily for the distant wing, a
servant came up to their rooms with a note from Mrs. Browne. It was an
invitation to join the Americans at dinner that evening in the grand
banquet hall. Across the bottom of Mrs. Browne's formal little note, her
husband had jauntily scrawled: "_Just to see how small we'll feel in a
ninety by seventy dining-room_" Lady Deppingham flushed and her eyes
glittered as she handed the note to her husband.

"Rubbish!" she exclaimed. Paying no heed to the wistful look in his eyes
or to the appealing shuffle of his foot, she sent back a dignified
little reply to the effect that "A previous engagement would prevent,
etc." The polite lie made it necessary for them to venture forth at
dinner time to eat their solitary meal of sardines and wafers in the
grove below. The menu was limited to almost nothing because Deppy
refused to fill his pockets with "tinned things and biscuit."

The next day they moved into the west wing, and that evening they had
the Brownes to dine with them in the banquet hall. Deppingham awoke in
the middle of the night with violent cramps in his stomach. He suffered
in silence for a long time, but, the pain growing steadily worse, his
stoicism gave way to alarm. A sudden thought broke in upon him, and with
a shout that was almost a shriek he called for Antoine. The valet found
him groaning and in a cold perspiration.

"Don't say a word to Lady Deppingham," he grunted, sitting up in bed and
gazing wildly at the ceiling, "but I've been poisoned. The demmed
servants--ouch!--don't you know! Might h