his glass into
his eye with much difficulty, it being a new importation and hard to
manage. When he has altered all his face into an appalling grin, and
completely blocked the sight of one eye, he goes on affably: "I think
all this--er--very charming."

"No? Do you? I'm _so_ glad. Do you know I believe you have
wonderful taste? The way in which you tied that last bunch of trailing
ivy had something about it absolutely artistic."

"If it hadn't fallen to pieces directly afterward, which rather spoiled
the effect," says Sir Penthony, with an unkind smile.

"Did it? How sad! But then the idea remains, and that is everything.
Now, Mr. Grainger, please stand here--(will you move a little bit, Sir
Penthony? Thanks)--just here--while I go up this ladder to satisfy
myself about these flowers. By the bye,"--pausing on one of the rungs
to look back,--"suppose I were to fall? Do you think you could catch
me?"

"I only wish you would give me the opportunity of trying," replies he,
weakly.

"Beastly puppy!" mutters Sir Penthony, under his breath.

"Perhaps I shall, if you are good. Now look. Are they straight? Do they
look well?" asks Cecil.

"Very sweet," replies Mr. Grainger.

"Potts, hand me up some nails," exclaims Lowry, impatiently, who is on
another ladder close by, and has been an attentive and disgusted
listener; addressing Potts, who stands lost in contemplation of
Grainger. "Look sharp, can't you? And tell me what you think of this."
Pointing to his design on the wall. "Is it 'all your fancy painted it?'
Is it 'lovely' and 'divine?' Answer."

"Very sour, I think," returns Mr. Potts, hitting off Grainger's voice
to a nicety, while maintaining a countenance sufficiently innocent to
border on the imbecile.

Both Sir Penthony and Lowry laugh immoderately, while Cecil turns away
to hide the smile that may betray her. Grainger himself is the only one
wholly unconscious of any joke. He smiles, indeed, genially, because
they smile, and happily refrains from inquiry of any sort.

Meantime in the tea-room--that opens off the supper-room, where the
others are engaged--Molly and Philip are busy arranging bouquets chosen
from among a basketful of flowers that has just been brought in by one
of the under-gardeners.

Philip is on his knees,--almost at Molly's feet,--while she bends over
him searching for the choicest buds.

"What a lovely ring!" says Philip, presently, staying in his task to
take her hand and examine