During the hour before luncheon he had been constructing set speeches with which to greet his nephew and his ward on their return. It was considerably to his disgust when, just before the luncheon gong rang, the “tub” containing Violet, the children and Patsy—all the picture of happy innocence—drove up to the front steps. “Oh, there you are!” cried Miss Lestrange, glancing up at her guardian, who had opened the hall door and was standing on the top step. “What became of you?” “Where’s Richard?” asked the General. “I called to you to stop. He had no right to go dragging you through that hedge. Where is he?” “I don’t know,” said Violet. “I met the governess-cart, and they gave me a lift. Did you see the hare?” “No,” said the General, glaring at the “tub” and its occupants, “I saw no hare. Look at that pony, all of a lather. What do you mean by driving cattle in that fashion, sir—eh?” “I wasn’t dhrivin’ no cattle, sir,” replied Patsy, who had for General Grampound a feeling compounded in about equal parts of hatred and fear. “Punch always lathers if you dhrive him beyand a walk.” “Come on, come on,” said the old gentleman, turning to Violet, “get your hat off—get yourself ready, the luncheon is waiting—you were late for breakfast——” “I wasn’t,” said Violet; “I was down before you.” “I have repeatedly said,” went on the elder, “that to make a hotel of another person’s house, rushing out at all hours and back to meals at all hours, is deuced bad form. I have——” The roar of the gong cut him short, and Violet rushed upstairs to change her hat. “Had a good run?” asked Uncle Molyneux at luncheon. “Had a good what?” asked General Grampound. “Run—beagles, you know.” “I have,” said Dicky, who had just returned, answering the question and slipping into his seat both at the same time, “No—chops, please—what became of you?” “I met the governess-cart,” replied Violet, “and came home in it.” “Where’s Boxall?” asked Uncle Molyneux. “Mr Boxall is not feeling very well, sir, and will not be down to luncheon,” said old James. Patsy, who had given the pony in charge of the stable lad, given his face a “lick of a towel,” and assumed duty as distributer of mashed potatoes, was passing along pursuing his functions at the opposite side of the table to Mr Fanshawe. As James gave this information, Mr Fanshawe saw the ghost of a grin pass across Patsy’s face and vanish. “I’ll go up and see him after luncheon,” said the General. “I expect that tumble into the ditch has shaken him up?” “Did Mr Boxall follow the hounds?” asked Lady Molyneux. “No; it was at the meet,” replied the General. “A ruffian hit him on the side of the head with a bag of soot. Egad, I thought his neck was broken!”