The old gentleman is--with the exception, perhaps, of Algy--the most dilapidated among us. He has not yet begun one anecdote, whose point was not smothered and effaced by that choking, goat-like cough. This is perhaps a gain to _us_, as one is not expected to laugh at a _cough_; nor does its _dénoûment_ ever put one to the blush. Mr. Parker has no cold at all, and has even had the shameless audacity to propose _another_ expedition to-day. But we all rise in such loud and open revolt that he has perforce to withdraw his suggestion. He must save his superfluous energy for the evening, when the neighbors are to come together, and we are to dance. This fact is news to most of us, and I think we hardly receive it with the elation he expects. There seems to be more of rheumatism than of dance in many of our limbs, and our united sneezes will be enough to drown the band. However, revolt in this case is useless. We must console ourselves with the notion that at least in a ballroom there can be neither rain nor wind--that we cannot lose our way or be upset, at least not in the sense which had such terror for us yesterday. Roger has gone over to Tempest on business, and is away all day. Mrs. Huntley sits by the fire, with a little fichu over her head, sipping a tisane; while Algy, in undisturbed possession, and with restored but feverish amiability, stretches his length on the rug at her feet, and looks injured if Barbara or I, or even the footman with coals, enters the room. As the day goes on, there is not much to do; a new idea takes possession of Mr. Parker's active mind. Why should not we all be in fancy-dress to-night? Well, not all of us, then--not his uncle, of course, nor Sir Roger, but any of us that liked. _Trouble!_ Not a bit of it. Why, the ladies need only rouge a bit, and put some flour on their heads, and there they are; and, as for the men, there is a heap of old things up in the lumber-room that belonged to his great-grandfather, and among them there is sure to be something to fit everybody. If they do not believe him, they may come and see for themselves. Such is the force of a strong will, that he actually carries off the deeply unwilling Musgrave to inspect his ancestor's wardrobe. At first we have treated his proposal only with laughter, but he is so profoundly in earnest about it, and dwells with such eagerness on the advantage of the fact that not a soul among the company will recognize us--he can answer for _himself_ at least--it is always by his _hair_ (with a laugh) that people know _him_--that we at length begin to catch his ardor.