Charles Bevan followed his cousin to the house. His orderly mind could never have imagined of its own volition a _ménage_ like that of the Lamberts. He revolted at it, yet felt strangely fascinated. It was like watching people dancing on a tight rope half cut in two, sailors feasting and merry-making on a sinking wreck, children plucking flowers on the crumbling edge of a cliff. Tea was laid in state in the drawing-room, a lovely old room with tapestried walls, and windows that opened upon the garden; or at least that part of it which had been robbed of its roses and converted into a kitchen-garden during one of George Lambert's economical fits. "That is the asparagus bed," said Fanny proudly. It was like a badly-ploughed field, and Charles' eye travelled slowly over its ridges and hollows. "Have you a potato bed?" he asked, his mind subconsciously estimating the size of the Lamberts' Highgate estate on the basis that their potato crop was in proportion to their asparagus. "Oh, we buy our potatoes and cabbages and things," said Fanny; "they are cheap." "But asparagus takes such a time to grow--four years, I think it is." "Oh, surely not so long as that?" said the girl, taking her seat at the tea-table. "Why, oak trees would grow quicker than that; besides, James said we would have splendid asparagus next spring, and he was a professed gardener before his misfortunes overtook him. Do you take sugar?" "Yes, please," said Charles, wearily dropping into a low chair and wondering vaguely at the angelic beauty of the girl's face. "And what, may I ask, were the 'misfortunes' that overtook James?" "His wife, poor thing, took to drink," said she, with so much commiseration in her tone that she might have been a disciple of the new criminology, "and that broke his heart and took all his energy away." "Do you believe him?" "Why not? He is a most devoted creature; and he is going to give up the business he is in and stay on when father pays Mr Isaacs. I hope we will never part with James." Susannah, in honour of the guest, had produced the best tea service, a priceless set of old Sèvres. The tray was painted with Cupidons blowing trumpets as if in honour of the victory of Susannah over mischance, in that she had conveyed them upstairs by some miracle unsmashed. There was half a cake by Buszard; the tea, had it been paid for, would have cost five shillings a pound, but the milk was sky blue. As Fanny was cutting up the cake in liberal slices as if for a children's party, two frightful-looking cats walked into the room with all the air of bandits. One was jet black and one was brindled; both looked starved, and each wore its tail with a pump-handle curve after the fashion of a lion's when marauding. Fanny regarded them lovingly, and poured out a saucerful of the blue milk which she placed on the floor. "Aren't they angels?"