"And Mrs. Poole is to sing; and Incledon." Up jumped the Admiral, slapping his thigh. "Incledon! Then, by gum, I must be there! He was a sailor, y’ know. I remember him in ’85, on the _Raisonable_. Lord Hervey, and Pigot and Hughes—they ’d have him up to sing glees together!—Lord! Did ye ever hear him sing: ’A health to the Captain and officers too, And all who belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa’?" Now, the Admiral’s voice was an admirable substitute for a fog-horn, but as a vehicle for a ballad, it left much to be desired. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn writhed in melodramatic agony, and even Mrs. Poskett winced. Basil tried to turn the enthusiast’s thoughts into a gentler channel by interpolating that to-night Incledon was to sing "Tom Bowling." At once the Admiral’s face took on an expression of the tenderest pathos. "Tom Bowling?—Ah!" and he was off again, in a roar he intended for a mere sentimental whisper "Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling—" This was too much for Jim’s feelings, never more receptive to melodious sorrow than when he had just absorbed a pint of ale, and he joined his master in a sympathetic howl. Mrs. Poskett was overcome. "Oh, don’t, Sir Peter," she cried. "Alderman Poskett used to sing just like that. You could hear him a mile off, but you could never tell what the tune was." The tender recollection very nearly moved her to tears. Sir Peter stopped his song abruptly, with a penitent, "Gobblessmysoul! I beg your pardon!" Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn felt he had been out of the conversation long enough. He turned condescendingly to Basil. "Are we not to see the Misses Pennymint to-day?" "They are very busy," replied the young violinist. Mrs. Poskett saw her opportunity. "I saw Miss Ruth sewing at a ball-dress," she said; and then added with a meaning look at Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, "I wonder which of them is going to a ball?" Basil knew from experience what was coming. Mrs. Poskett continued, "I’ve seen them making wedding-dresses, and even," with pretty confusion, "even christening robes." Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned to her with an outraged expression: "I trust you do not insinuate Pomander Walk harbours mantua-makers?" "It harbours a poor, hunchback fiddler," remarked Basil, very quietly. Sir Peter was getting red in the face. "The Misses Pennymint are estimable ladies, and we are fortunate to have them among us. Frequently when I have my periodical headaches—" "Hum," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "The result, sir, of voyages in unhealthy regions!—they have sent me their home-made lavender water. When you had your last fit of asthma, Mrs. Poskett, did n’t they come and sit with you and give you treacle-posset? And when Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn presented you with your fourth daughter, whose calves-foot jelly comforted her? We have nothing to do with their means of livelihood; we are, I am happy to say, like one family. What, Brooke?"