Ansell, as a man appeared from the
Buttery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray.

"College coffee! How nice!" remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie.
"But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sister
gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils--"

"He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That's Rickie all over.
Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things go
bad."

"Give them to the bedder while they're hot." This was done. She accepted
them dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment.
Tilliard continued to describe his sister's coffee machine.

"What's that?" They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs.

"It sounds like a lady," said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the piece
of pie back. It fell into position like a brick.

"Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?" The door opened and in came Mrs.
Lewin. "Oh horrors! I've made a mistake."

"That's all right," said Ansell awkwardly.

"I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?"

"We expect Mr. Elliot every-moment," said Tilliard.

"Don't tell me I'm right," cried Mrs. Lewin, "and that you're the
terrifying Mr. Ansell." And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard
warmly by the hand.

"I'm Ansell," said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim.

"How stupid of me not to know it," she gasped, and would have gone on to
I know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie.

"Here's Miss Pembroke," he said. "I am going to marry her."

There was a profound silence.

"We oughtn't to have done things like this," said Agnes, turning to Mrs.
Lewin. "We have no right to take Mr. Ansell by surprise. It is Rickie's
fault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to be
horsewhipped."

"He ought, indeed," said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. Not till he
gained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. As
for Ansell, the first thing he said was, "Why didn't you counter-order
the lemon-sole?"

In such a situation Mrs. Lewin was of priceless value. She led the way
to the table, observing, "I quite agree with Miss Pembroke. I loathe
surprises. Never shall I forget my horror when the knife-boy painted the
dove's cage with the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parsival
nearly died. His feathers were bright green!"

"Well, give me the lemon-soles," said Rickie. "I like them."

"The bedder's got them."

"Well, there you are! What's there t