“I’m getting dangerous,” he felt; and not all the petting of Mrs. Aquiline, nor all the attentions of the daughtery mothers and nubile daughters, could distract him or make him distracted from this ugly presence of hateful thoughts. He observed that Belden was uneasy when he was by, and concealed his unease by a seeming cordiality. Mr. Waddy began to tingle with a nervous sensation of presentiment that there was to be a crisis, an explanation, a punishment, a vengeance--what and for what he could not yet foresee. By-and-by, the happy moment arrived for which all other deeds at a picnic are only preparatory. The edible and potable picnic was announced as ready to be eaten and drunk, and a truly Apician banquet it was--thanks to Mrs. Wilkes, experienced giver of dinners and liberal feeder of mankind. Some of the banqueting was very pretty to behold. Fair ladies are not ignoble in the act of taking ladylike provender. But it must also be allowed that some of the banqueting was not so pretty. “Look at Rev. Theo. Logge,” said Peter Skerrett to Ambient; “he pretends to wish that “‘All the world Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream----’ “But observe, that is not pulse he eats, but pâté of Strasburg, and what he is pouring down is a stream, to be sure, a large one and clear, but it comes from a very poptious bottle. I cannot think it water.” “I say, Peter,” says Guy, “let’s fuddle the Rev.” “Guyas Cutus,” reproved Peter gravely, “you are a pagan. I have frequently remarked that difference between Cloanthus and you. You are a pagan and swear ‘I Gaads.’ He is a monotheist and swears ‘I Gaad’. In this case you can spare yourself a sacrilege. Mr. Logge is fuddling himself. Hillo,” he added, looking up suddenly as a cork struck him hard on the ear. De Châteaunéant had opened a champagne bottle carelessly and had not only bombarded Peter, but had deluged Sir Comeguys. Sir Com looked quietly at the Frenchman, waiting for an apology; none came, but the bottle-holder gave a blackguard laugh. He must have been a little elated by drinking, and reckless. Miss Arabella had been particularly cool to him all day, and it had taken much wine to counterbalance his chagrin. No one saw the little scene except Blinders and Mrs. Budlong, and the banquet went on and off brilliantly. While the gentlemen were lighting cigars and separating for a few moments from the ladies, Blinders tapped De Châteaunéant on the shoulder. “Sir Com Ambient would like to say a word to you behind the hill yonder,” he said with a meaning look. “I’ll see fair play for you.” Auguste Henri, who had continued his draughts intemperately, first turned pale and then blustered and vinously vapoured that he would not go at any man’s dictation--he didn’t owe any apology to “_ce niais_.”