"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Welwyn, greatly agitated at the proximity of her hour. "Where shall I sit, Tilly dear?" "On the sofa, Mumsie; and don’t get hot, because you are looking very nice," said Tilly soothingly. "Hallo, Dad--just in time!" Mr. Welwyn in a frock-coat, looking quite the scholar and gentleman, had entered from his bedroom. "I perceive the feast is spread," he observed jauntily. "Mistress of Ceremonies, how do we dispose ourselves?" "Mother here," replied meticulous Tilly--"on the sofa with the ’Morning Post.’ I picked it up off the floor of the railway-carriage this morning. Don’t read it; just be glancing at it carelessly. Father, sit by the fire with a book. Here’s one. ’Melia, you had better be on a footstool at Mother’s feet, with your head against her knee. Don’t fall over her when you get up, Mother. And don’t come forward more than three steps to meet Lady Adela: you ’re as good as she is, remember. Say it’s very sweet of her to come all this way. And if you call her ’your Ladyship,’ I shall walk straight across the room and kill you--see?" "Yes, lovey," sighed the flustered Mrs. Welwyn. "What _do_ I call her?" "Lady Adela--not Lady Mainwaring, mind!" "It sounds so familiar, starting Christian names right off," objected Mrs. Welwyn feebly. "Never mind; you’ve got to do it," said Tilly ruthlessly. "I shall be here by the tea-table, and if any of you get on to thin ice I shall drop a teaspoon. Do you all understand?" "Yes, Tilly," replied a respectful chorus. "Very well, then," replied the Mistress of Ceremonies. "Now let me see you all in your places. Attention!" Tilly clapped her hands, and her well-drilled retinue froze into their appointed attitudes. "Don’t hold the ’Morning Post’ as if you were trying to lick butter off it, Mother," said Tilly. "’Melia, pull up your stocking. Dad, you are splendid, but you are laughing. This is a serious business, remember. Now, all keep like that for two minutes, to see if--Mercy on us, here they are!" But she was wrong. The door creaked, and swung slowly open, to admit the attenuated figure of Grandma Banks, who in the most unconcerned fashion possible hobbled across the room to the fireplace and seated herself in the vacant armchair opposite to her son-in-law, with every appearance of having come to anchor for the evening. ―――― Grandma’s descendants gathered into a panic-stricken knot in the corner. "She _can’t_ stay!" whispered Tilly frantically. "Mother, get her to bed." "My dearie," responded Mrs. Welwyn helplessly, "you know what she is when she smells a rat!" "Try, anyhow!" urged Tilly, glancing feverishly at the clock. Mrs. Welwyn approached her aged parent much as a small boy approaches a reputed wasp’s nest. "Mother," she said nervously.