“Oh, I’m gled of thet,” said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. “It’s so nice to think of one’s deer ones——” She swung round to glare at the railings. “Albert, go back an’ see who threw them srimps. . . . ‘Orrible, vulgar brutes!” She stood fairly heaving with rage. “Reelly, the people that comes to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don’t know where they was born. I didn’ know there was such people. Push you as soon as look at you. Reelly, one’s better at ’ome. Walkin’ out’s no pleasure at all. But come in, deer. Come in an’ meet the girls.” She guided Ann through the passage and into a parlour. The table was laid for a meal and there were covers for eight. Standing uneasily together as though for protection were the two girls and two young men. The sour-faced girl was adopting a nonchalant air. Hand on hip, eyebrows raised, lip curled, she sought self-consciously to veil her self-consciousness. Her jolly-eyed sister appeared to be upon the edge of hysteria. Her face was set in a nervous frozen grin, her hands were twitching, her eyes riveted upon the floor. The youths were, if possible, still less at ease. Both were tall and weedy. One was dark and throaty—a quality which his belief in a tennis-shirt Byronically open at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged above that of his coat, served to accentuate. His long hair was unparted, oiled and brushed straight back. Two inches of close-cut side-whisker and an amazing length of finger-nail argued æsthetic tendencies which the soulful expression of his sallow face was intended to declare. He gave the impression of being able to groan efficiently. The other had a jaunty, more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in the middle and curled into twin horns. He was clearly conscious of his superiority and, that there might be no mistake about it, was languidly sucking his teeth. His collar—a soft creation of broad black and white stripes—his red and chocolate tie, the golden kerchief flowing from his breast-pocket showed that he knew how to dress. “These are me daughters,” explained Aunt Harriet, “an’ their gentlemen-frien’s. May . . .” The sour-eyed girl advanced and shook hands—then turned, flushing violently, to toy with a book. “Ada.” The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, started forward, missed Ann’s hand, tried again, clutched it anyhow and withdrew. “Mr. Barnham.” The æsthete thrust forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann’s fingers and turned confusedly away. “Mr. Alcock.” Mr. Alcock delighted in showing how things should be done. Here was a brilliant opportunity of at once asserting his superiority, astonishing Ann, who would be thankful to find such unexpected _savoir-faire_, and dispelling any skulking idea that to carry off such an encounter was beyond his powers. He stepped forward briskly. “Pleased to meet you, indeed,” he said warmly. “’Ow’s Piccadilly?” It was a difficult question to answer.