“Is that you, ladies?” said the doctor. “I looked for you among the first, and now you’re here, let me offer you some of this raised pie. It’s just particularly good, with truffles as big as my thumb. I take credit for suggesting a game pie. I said they would send the whole parish into my hands with their cauld ices that are not adapted to our climate.” “We were just saying ices are but a wersh provision, and make you shiver to think of them at this time of the year; but many thanks to you, doctor. We are not in the habit either of eating or drinking between meals. Perhaps a gentleman may want it, and you have science to help you down with it. But two women like us, we are just very well content with a cup of tea.” “Which is a far greater debauch,” said the doctor hotly, “for you are always at it.” But he put down his plate. “The auld cats,” he said to himself; “there’s not a drop passes my lips but they see it, and it will be over all the parish that I was standing guzzlin’ here at this hour of the day.” But there were others beside the doctor who took advantage of the raised pie and appreciated the truffles. People who have been whetted by music and vague conversation and nothing to do or think of for a weary afternoon, eat with enthusiasm when the chance occurs; they eat even cake and bread and butter, how much more the luxurious _mayonnaise_ and lobsters and _foie gras_. After the shiver of an ice it was grateful to turn to better fare. And Mr. Dirom was in his glory in the dining-room, which was soon filled by a crowd more animated and genial than that which had strolled about the lawn. “You will spoil your dinner,” the ladies said to their husbands, but with small effect. “Never mind the dinner,” said the master of the house. “Have a little of this Château Yquem. It is not a wine you can get every day. I call it melted gold; but I never ask the price of a wine so long as it’s good; and there’s plenty more where that came from.” His wealth was rampant, and sounded in his voice and in his laugh, till you seemed to hear the money tinkle. Phyllis and Doris and Fred cast piteous glances at each other when they met. “Oh, will nobody take him away!” they cried under their breath. “Fred, can’t you pretend there is a telegram and dreadful news? Can’t you say the Bank of England is broke, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer has run away?” He wounded his children’s nerves and their delicacy beyond description, but still it had to be allowed that he was the master of the house. And so the party came to an end, and the guests, many of them with indigestions, but with the most cordial smiles and applause and hand-shakings, were gradually cleared away. CHAPTER X.