Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn did his best to wither him with a look. Then he resumed. "Brooke, says he—Brooke, my boy"—just like that—all craned forward: they must not miss the point—"it’s a very warm night." His audience waited. Yes? The rest of the story? He looked from one to the other a little uncomfortably. When they found nothing more was coming they turned to each other, puzzled. Could this be all? Was their perspicacity at fault? or where was the joke? The Admiral, bolder than the rest, gave voice to the general feeling. "H’m. I don’t see much in that." [Illustration: THEN HE RESUMED. "BROOKE," SAYS HE,—"BROOKE, MY BOY,"—JUST LIKE THAT] "Nobody ever suspected you of having a sense of humour," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, severely. However, he felt that his first effort had not been the success he had hoped for, and he tried again. "Ah!"—said he, brightening up, "and my friend, H.R.H. the P. of W.!" He uttered the cabalistic letters with a mixture of mystery and airy familiarity. There was an awed "Oh-h!" from all his hearers except Sir Peter. The latter exclaimed impatiently, "Your friend who?" The reply came with crushing weight. "His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, sir!" The Admiral reeled under the shock of this broadside. Mrs. Poskett leant forward eagerly. "What did the dear Prince say? My poor husband knew him well," she explained. "When Mr. Alderman Poskett was Sheriff, the dear Prince frequently dined with the Corporation, and many ’s the time he said to Poskett, ’Mr. Sheriff, you must be knighted,’ but Poskett went and died—" Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was annoyed. He was being interrupted, which is a thing intolerable, and his own anecdote was being supplanted. He held up a deprecatory hand. "It was not so much what he said," he explained, "as his manner of saying it. Just:—’Ah, Brooke!’—but oh! the elegance! Oh, the condescension!" Sir Peter broke out with, "Well, of all the—!" But Madame stopped him with a touch on his arm. "Do you ever make speeches, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?" she asked sweetly. The great man looked at her with something like suspicion. For a moment he was undeniably flustered. But he mastered himself with an effort and replied with a fair assumption of carelessness, "Short ones, Ma’am. Frequent, but short. I have proposed the health of many gentlemen of distinction." "How clever you must be!" cried Ruth, admiringly. "Oh—!" protested Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with exquisite modesty. Madame pointed to the river, now gleaming in the afterglow. "How strangely empty the Walk looks without our fisherman!" "I was wondering what I missed," said Basil, "of course! The Eyesore!" "He leaves a blank," added Ruth. Marjolaine laughed. "He was a sort of statue." Mrs. Poskett confided tearfully to her tea-cup. "The Walk is not the Walk without him." Sir Peter was genuinely astonished. "Why, he tried to drown your cat, Ma’am!"