"And I warned you, Mother," said Amelia reproachfully. "That last word is put in on purpose to trip you up." "Yes, I know," replied her mother with an apologetic smile. "And it always does. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, ducky, and that’s a fact. I have always been common in my talk, and common in my talk I always will be. All I can promise is that I will do my best this afternoon; and I hope, for all of your sakes, that your old mother won’t go and disgrace you." Little ’Melia’s reply to this humble aspiration was an embrace which entirely disorganised the hooks and eyes at the back of Martha Welwyn’s festal garment. While the disaster was being repaired, Tilly entered briskly. In her hand she held a printed card, bearing the legend APARTMENTS in staring letters. This she dropped behind the piano. "Hook me up behind, ’Melia, will you," she said, "when you have finished Mother? No, I’ll do Mother and you do me. Your hair-ribbon is wrong. Let me get hold of it." The Welwyns, _mère et filles_, formed themselves into a voluble equilateral triangle. "I found that ’Apartments’ card lying on the hall table," said Tilly with a shiver. "I suppose Russell took it out of the drawer when he was making his inventory. A nice thing if they had all marched in through the front door at that very moment! Still," she added cheerily, "there’s no harm done. Am I all right, do you think?" "Tilly, you look lovely," said Amelia. "One thing about being a dress-designer," admitted Tilly, kissing her little sister, "is that you can design yourself a dress. ’Melia, you look a little duck. Mother, your hair is n’t quite right. Let me pull it out a bit here." She tweaked the coiffure of her much-enduring parent into position, whistling blithely. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkled. She was determined to look her best for Dicky that day. And to do her justice, she did. "Tilly dear," remarked Mrs. Welwyn dubiously, "can we all get round that table for tea?" "Gracious!" cried Tilly, observing the heavily loaded table for the first time. "You are never going to plant everybody round _that_, like nursery tea?" "Ain’t we?" said Mrs. Welwyn blankly. "Certainly not," replied Tilly. Swiftly she sketched out the fundamentals of that meal which combines the maximum of discomfort with the minimum of nourishment--afternoon-tea as consumed by high society in the present period--and in three minutes the great round table, tipped onto its edge, was trundled rapidly into Mr. Welwyn’s bedroom, to the surprise and discomfort of Mr. Welwyn, who was dressing at the time. "Now a small tea-table," commanded Tilly. "There is n’t such a thing in the house, love," panted her overheated parent. "Yes, there is," said little ’Melia, the ever-ready. "In Mr. Pumpherston’s room. He keeps a text framed in fir-cones on it."