"That's exactly it," said Hancock, who was standing on the hearthrug listening to these banalities of thought, and contemplating Bridgewater. "Miss Lambert is a true philosopher. It is the people who make the world what it is; could we banish the meddlers and spies and traitors"--he looked fixedly at his sister--"the world would not be an unpleasant place to live in." "I hate spies," said Fanny, totally unconscious of the delicate ground she was stepping upon--"people who poke about into other people's business, and open letters, and that sort of thing." Miss Hancock flushed scarlet, and her brother noted the fact. "James opens letters, I caught him." "Who is James?" asked Miss Hancock. "He's our butler," said Fanny, looking imploringly at Mr Hancock as if to say "Don't tell." Miss Hancock rose. "May I show you to my room? you would like to remove your hat." The dinner was not a success, intellectually speaking. James Hancock's temper half broke down over the soles, the sauce was not to his liking; the sweet cakes, ices, and other horrors he had consumed during the day had induced a mild attack of dyspepsia. His nose was red, and he knew it; and, worst of all, faint twinges of gout made themselves felt. His right great toe was saying to him, "Wait till you see what you'll have to-morrow." Then Boffins, the old butler, tripped on the cat, broke a dish, and James Hancock's temper flew out. I have described James Hancock badly, if you have not perceived that he was a man with a temper. The evil demons in the Merangues and ices, the irritation caused by Bridgewater's confession, the provoking calmness of his sister, the uric acid in his blood, and the smash of the broken dish, all combined of a sudden and were too much for him. "Damn that cat!" he cried. "Cats, cats, cats! How often have I told you"--to his sister--"that I will not have my house filled with those sneaking, prowling beasts? Chase her out; where is she?" Boffins looked under the table and said "Scat," but nothing "scatted." "She's gone, Mr James." "I won't have cats in my house," said Mr James, proceeding with his dinner and feeling rather ashamed of his outburst. "Dear Lord, Patience, what do you call this thing?" "The cook," said Patience, "calls it, I believe, a _vol-au-vent_. What is wrong with it?" "What is right with it, you mean. Don't touch it, Miss Lambert, unless you wish to have a nightmare." "I think it's delicious," said Fanny, "and I don't mind nightmares. They're rather fun--when they are over, and you wake up and find yourself safe in bed." "Well, you'll have some fun to-night," grunted James. "The person who cooked this atrocity ought to be made sleep with the person who eats it." "James, you need not be _vulgar_," said his sister. "What's vulgar?" "Your remark." "Boffins, fill Miss Lambert's glass--let's change the subject. This champagne is abominably iced--give me some Burgundy." "James!" "Well?" "Burgundy!" "Well, what about Burgundy?"