There was an awkward pause. Fortunately at this moment Jim created a diversion by bringing the third pewter. To his amazement Mrs. Poskett promptly seized it. "For me? How thoughtful of you!" she cried; and while Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn looked on too much astonished to speak, she drained it as to the manner born. "Jim, another," grunted the Admiral. But Mrs. Poskett protested. "Oh, no, I could n’t! Reely and posivitely I could n’t!" "We was expecting Mr. Pringle, ma’am," said the Admiral, stiffly. But the hint was entirely lost. "Ah, poor Mr. Pringle! Poor fellow! An unhappy life, I fear; and him with one shoulder higher than the other. Not that you notice it much when you look at him sideways. There. I was rather alarmed when he arrived a month ago. Can’t be too careful, and me a lone woman. A musician, you know. One never knows what their morals may be." "Hoho!" shouted Sir Peter, "he’s quiet enough—except when he ’s making a noise!" Mrs. Poskett looked puzzled. She never could see a joke. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn received it with his customary stony stare and at once broke in. "He is some sort of cousin to the Misses Pennymint, I am told?" "Yes," said Mrs. Poskett, with a sniff, "we are told. But who knows?—I fear—" she sank her voice to a mysterious whisper—"I fear he is—hush!—a lodger!" Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was genuinely shocked. "You don’t say so!" The Admiral began to grow uncomfortable. He hated tittle-tattle. "Where’s that cat of yours, ma’am?" he cried, with sudden suspicion. "Sempronius? The dear thing is so happy. He ’s in the front garden, listening to your dear thrush." "By Jehoshaphat!" cried the Admiral, half rising. "Oh, don’t be alarmed! Sempronius adores him. He would n’t touch a hair of his head." "I warn you, ma’am," growled Sir Peter, reluctantly sinking back into his seat, "if he does, I ’ll wing him." From which you might gather the speakers thought that thrushes had hair and cats wings. Now Basil Pringle, who had carefully laid his famous Strad in its case and covered it with a magnificent silk handkerchief, joined the little group under the elm. He was—apart from a very slight malformation of one shoulder—a good-looking fellow. He had the musician’s pensive face, and a pair of very tender brown eyes, and his hands were the true violinist’s hands, with long and lissome fingers. Jim hobbled up at the same time with a fresh pewter of ale. "Ah, Mr. Pringle," said the Admiral, hospitably, "here ’s your pewter." But Basil waved it away. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Poskett—Gentlemen. Thank you, Admiral, but I ’m sure you ’ll excuse me. I have a long night’s work." Jim was ready for the occasion. He hobbled back quicker than he had come, and drained the pewter at one draught under the very nose of the Eyesore. "Fiddling at Vauxhall?" asked the Admiral. "As usual, Sir Peter. It is a gala night. Fireworks." Mrs. Poskett gave a little scream of delight. "Fireworks! Oh, ravishing!"