Ann started to her feet: Aunt Harriet screamed: May recoiled against the wall: Bob and Mr. Alcock regarded their compeer open-mouthed: Uncle Tom, who had been in the act of drinking, was coughing and cursing and wringing tea from his moustache. What was more to the point, Ada stopped hiccuping. When Mr. Barnham pointed this out, the fact was coldly received. “Enough to make anybody stop anything,” snarled Aunt Harriet. “Don’t you know ’ow to be’ave?” “In course I do,” said Mr. Barnham. “You never see me do that before.” “No, an’ don’t you never let me see you do it again,” was the tart reply. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits.” “But I done it to stop ’er ’iccups,” protested the ill-used youth. “I don’t want to know why you done it,” observed his hostess. “You done it—an’ that’s enough. You oughtter be ashamed of yourself. . . . May, give Lady Ann a cut of beef.” With goggling eyes, Mr. Barnham proceeded in some dudgeon to the consumption of a hunk of dry bread, presumably with some vague idea that this mortification of the flesh would stimulate a recognition of his injury. Conversation revived. Mr. Alcock spoke of sport, commending the pursuit of lawn tennis with the air of one who has tried everything and come to the reluctant conclusion that that pastime is a better antidote to _ennui_ than any other. Uncle Tom recounted a dispute which had arisen in the saloon bar of _The Goat_ regarding elephantiasis. His narrative slid naturally enough into a vivid comparison of such cases of this complaint as had come under his notice or that of the other patrons of the saloon bar. Aunt Harriet, even more naturally, proved able and willing to supplement his list with personal experiences so distressing as to suggest that an inscrutable Providence had chosen her among women to be harrowed in this peculiar way. May related how someone had ‘passed the remark’ that a new char-à-banc service was to be instituted between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if she was fond of motoring. Ann replied with enthusiasm. “I think it’s tremendous fun.” “D’you ’ave the Blue Fleet in Dorset?” “I—I don’t know,” stammered Ann. “Do we, Bob?” “Yes, dear,” said Bob. “That bounder wot ’it your coopy was one o’ the Blue Fleet.” There was an awful silence. “Your coopy?” said Uncle Tom. “Er, yes,” said Ann desperately. “Nice, tight little car, too,” said Bob. “Wish I could give ’er one now.” “A.C.?” ventured Mr. Alcock. “‘A.C.’?” said Bob. “Forty-fifty Rolls.” There was another silence. “Must ’ve bin delightful,” said Aunt Harriet shakily. “Still, there’s things beside cars.” “Rather,” said Ann heartily. “Such as wot?” said Uncle Tom. “Well, all isn’t gold as glitters,” snapped his wife. “That’s true,” said Mr. Barnham sagely. “Woddyer mean?” said his host. “Wot’s true? A Rolls moter coopy’s good enough fer mos’ people.” “Well, an’ who said it wasn’t?” said May. “Look ’ere,” said her father. “Your mother said there was things beside cars.”