"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," cried Miss Philippa playfully. "A little bird at dear Lady Littletown's whispered a little something in my ear. But it's very, very shocking, isn't it, sister?" "Oh yes," cried Miss Isabella, repeating her sad little laugh, her head nodding very much the while; "but fie--fie--fie! Hush--hush--hush! Here is Joseph coming to change the plates." Joseph it was, and as he changed the plates Clotilde held her bouquet to her flushed cheeks in turn, and gazed at Marie, who held the flowers to her own cheeks, both of which were creamy white as some of the blossoms; and she, too, gazed rather curiously at her sister, trying to read her meaning in her eyes. But nobody paid any heed to Ruth, who looked wistfully at the gorgeous colours in Clotilde's bouquet, and the delicate tints in that of Marie, and she could not help wishing that someone sent her flowers--someone, say, like Captain Glen. Then she thought of Mr Montaigne, and she shivered, she hardly knew why, as she asked herself whether she ought not to have told her aunts of his visit and his ways. Then her thoughts were brought back to the happy present by Joseph placing a large section of "roley-poley" pudding before her upon a plate--not the ordinary homely "roley-poley" pudding, with flaky pastry and luscious gushings of the sweetest jam; but a peculiarly hard, mechanical style of compound which kept its shape, and in which the preserve presented itself in a rich streak of pink, starting from the centre, and winding round and round to the circumference, as if cook had turned artist, and was trying to perpetuate the neighbouring Maze in pastry at the least expenditure in cost. The cheese which followed was Glo'ster of the ducal sound and soapy consistency, and then the empty plates, representing dessert, were placed upon the table--there was no fruit that day; grace had been said, and the ladies rose, Clotilde and Marie being kissed, and advised to place their bouquets in water in the drawing-room. "They would look so nice if anyone called, my dears," said Miss Philippa. "Which they might, you know, my darling," added Miss Isabella, smiling, and nodding her head. So the flowers were placed in vases, duly watered, and the young ladies went up once more to their room, under orders to quickly redescend. "There!" cried Clotilde maliciously, as soon as they were alone, "I knew it--I knew it! Ruth! Cindy! Do you hear! Go down on one knee, and kiss the hand of the future Viscountess or Baroness, or whatever she is to be, Lady Moorpark." "No, don't, Ruth," cried Marie fiercely. "Go and salute the future Mrs Elbraham. Let me see, Clo dear; do ladies who marry Jews become Jewesses?" "Perhaps they do," cried Clotilde, who had no repartee ready. Marie laughed. "Jew--Jewess! Clo--old Clo! I wonder whether Mr Elbraham made his money that way? Eh, Clo dear?"