Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham laughed half-heartedly. Mr. Mason entered, tripped, recovered himself, gave the threshold an awful look, placed his hat upon the hand which Mr. Barnham was extending, side-stepped to the fireplace, pressed an imaginary bell and said, “Waiter bring a non-skid ’ammock and a moonlit night: I’ve just been married.” Even Aunt Harriet laughed—rather reluctantly. In fact, good humour was bundled into the room, neck and crop. Mr. Mason was tubby and of a cheerful countenance. He was neatly dressed in a sponge-bag suit which was too tight for him, a low double collar, a spotted bow tie and sand-shoes. A cane dangled from his pocket and a faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole. Miss Gedge was stout, frankly vulgar and, but for a cast in her eye, would have been a good-looking girl. She was the personification of contentment and goodwill. A droll pertness of manner enhanced her charm. She had, moreover, a most infectious laugh. This her squire exploited vigorously. The two carried all before them. There were but eight chairs, but the shortage, so far from presenting difficulty, smoothed an irregularity away. Lady Ann took her proper place, namely, her husband’s lap, while Ada, with many giggles, subsided into that of Mr. Alcock. The tambourine was rolling. . . . The flow of hatred had been arrested: soon the leak was being plugged—with the very underlinen of Sensitiveness, delicate, rosy mysteries, ripped from a girl’s back. “Yes,” said Mr. Mason. “Children is bits of ’eaven. I was a very large ’unk. I remember Mother sayin’ so when she found ’er boots in the oven. She didn’t put it that way, but . . . Besides, look at the burf rate.” Amid shrieks of laughter, he was conjured to ‘give over,’ whilst a glowing Bob squeezed Ann surreptitiously. “Oh, isn’t ’e awful?” panted Miss Gedge. “An’ when we’re out ’e does pass such dreadful remarks. Las’ Saturday afternoon a gentleman’s ’at blows off. ‘Stop it,’ cries someone. ‘Not me,’ says ’Erbert, ‘I’ve lef’ me gas-marsk at ’ome.’” There was a gust of merriment. As it died down, a fat guffaw of delight announced Uncle Tom’s perception of the point. “’E ought to go on the ’alls,” said Mr. Alcock. “Make ’is fortune.” Mr. Mason shook his head. “Why,” he said, “I should be stole in a week. An’ there’ld be pore Mabel——” “I should worry,” said Miss Gedge. “But you can’t ’ave your ’Untley an’ eat it too, can you, May?” “Not likely,” said May. “Look at pore Mrs. Stoker.” “There’s a tregedy,” said Aunt Harriet. “An’ three children an’ all.” Mr. Barnham, who had been awaiting his chance, groaned eloquently. “So when ’e talks about the stage,” continued Miss Gedge, “I says, ‘You go, me little friend,’ I says, ‘and ’ere’s ’appy days. But don’t you call roun’ for me on Monday evenin’, ’cause this is where you get off.’” A round of applause acclaimed this admirable sentiment. Mr. Mason blinked very hard.