"Haw! haw! Coffee, yes, decidedly. Breakfast? no--emphatically," cried Eustace, running two replies into one. "And, Olive, I must say, it's disgraceful of you, reared in the sweet seclusion of a virtuous rectory, only just sitting down to breakfast at ten o'clock. Disgraceful, I repeat." "Oh, Eusty, in the words of the poet--shut up!" laughed Olive. "Mr Marsland, I don't think you've met my sister?" And she introduced them. Sophie had grown up a very pretty girl. Her vivacity, however, was dashed with a tinge of shyness in the company of strangers, which was rather "fetching." Now she looked very engaging in her furry winter costume, her bright face sparkling with animation, and crowned by a becoming arrangement of golden hair. Marsland's somewhat susceptible heart was impressed. "No. But I think we should have broken the ice, anyhow, Mrs Dorrien," he answered with a laugh. "Break the ice? No you don't," cried the irrepressible Eustace. "At least not till this evening, when we flood it. And now, look sharp and finish the oats, good people, for we've come to pick you up, and Spelder Fields is over two miles off." "All right. I'll send and order the waggonette," said Roland, getting up. "Waggonette be hanged!" was the ceremonious rejoinder. "We are going to ride Shanks His Mare. And I tell you what, Roland, you lazy dog, you had better do ditto. Some leg work, this gorgeous morning, will do you all the good in the world. Quite set you up again," he grinned, with a wink at Marsland. "Set me up, eh? But I turned in before you did!" "Did he, Olive? No, I won't bet. I'll have no chance against your combined perjuries. But Roland, why didn't you turn up at our place last night and feed, instead of sneaking off home. The dad was expecting you. He wanted to run you against that great gun, Hurrell, the padre who held forth. Wasn't _he_ lively, eh?" "Eusty, you irreverent boy, don't talk shop," said Olive impatiently. "All serene. We had a regular sacerdotal feed though, with the dad in the chair and Margaret in the vice-chair. Concerning whom, old Crustibore, the ex-archdeacon of Seringapatam, who's stone deaf and takes snuff, remarked to his neighbour in a strident stage-whisper what a young-looking woman `Mrs Ingelow' was, to be the mother of that dashing fellow opposite. I thought the dad would have choked. As for me I roared outright, but I took care to look in another direction, so it didn't matter." "It wasn't `dashing fellow' at all, Olive," struck in Sophie. "What Dr Crustibore really said was `that lanky rascal.'" All shouted, except Eustace, who affected to regard the interruption as unworthy of notice. "Yes," he went on. "It's a pity you weren't there to keep Sophie in order. She behaved disgracefully, the more so that `great was the company of the preachers.'"