There seemed to be no polite means of escape, and Peter, with a suppressed grin, followed his companion to the veranda. It was lighted by a subdued glow from coloured lanterns, but there was an occasional patch of dimness. He picked out a comfortable chair and shoved it well into the shadow of a convenient palm. Standish produced cigars--twenty-five-cent Havanas, Peter noted appreciatively--and the two fell into conversation. Fortunately the young man aspired to the reputation of a _raconteur_, and he willingly bore most of the burden. Peter kept his own speeches as short as possible, manfully overcoming a tendency to end his sentences with "sir." An occasional interpolation of "By Jove!" or "I say!" in imitation of Lord Kiscadden's lazy drawl, was as far as he was required to go. He came out of the encounter with colours still flying; but a perilous ten minutes followed. As the two strolled back to the stage entrance, they were intercepted by a gay group of Pilgrim maids. Peter had coped successfully with one young man, but he realized that half a dozen young ladies were quite beyond his powers of repartee. One of them threw him a laughing compliment on his acting, and he felt himself growing pink as he murmured with a spasmodic gulp: "Yes, ma'am. Thank ye, ma'am--I say!" The orchestra saved the situation by striking into a rollicking quickstep that made talking difficult. The music in the end went to Peter's heels; and grasping a blue and buff coat tail in either hand, he favoured the company with an Irish jig. This served better than conversation; the laughter and applause were uproarious, bringing down upon them the wrath of the stage manager. "Here you people, _taisez-vous_! You're making such a racket they can hear you inside. Ah, Kiscadden! You're wanted on the stage; it's time for Cornwallis to surrender." Peter was marched out of danger's way. The surrender was followed by the operetta in which Miss Ethel was heroine. Her own affairs claimed her, but she paused long enough to whisper in George Washington's ear: "You may go now, Peter. You've done very nicely. Slip out through the butler's pantry where no one will see you. Change into your own clothes and help them in the kitchen about serving supper--but don't on _any_ account step into the front part of the house again to-night." "Yes, ma'am," said Peter, meekly. He found the entrance to the butler's pantry blocked, and he dived into the empty conservatory, intending to pass thence to the veranda, and so get around to the kitchen the outside way. But as he reached the veranda door he ran face to face into Mrs. Booth-Higby. Peter quickly backed into a fern-hung nook to let her pass. The light was dim, but his costume was distinctive; after a moment of hesitating scrutiny she bore down upon him.