"As this is the Third," interrupted Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with fine sarcasm, "you might safely have left us to infer that, sir!" He was standing close to Mrs. Poskett, who had not moved from her seat under the elm. Sir Peter came and faced him, so that the poor lady found herself, as she afterwards described it, between the upper and the nether millstone. If Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could wield sarcasm, so could Sir Peter when he was put to it. He spoke with dangerous politeness. "But it seems necessary to remind the bosom friend of H.R.H. the P. of W. that it is the birthday of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third!—" The shot told. For a moment Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was silenced. Sir Peter went on, conscious of victory, "Ladies, I warn you not to be alarmed when you hear me fire the salute as usual!" Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn leaped—positively leaped at his opportunity. "As usual!—Ha! That brass popgun of yours—" "Popgun!—" roared the Admiral, leaning across Mrs. Poskett. "I said popgun, sir!—has never gone off, yet!" Mrs. Poskett was in a dreadful flutter. She held up her cup and saucer deprecatingly to each of the infuriated gentlemen in turn, and each automatically seized them and rattled them in the other’s face. Jim—moved by his guilty conscience—was signalling frantically to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn not to betray him. The Admiral was purple in the face. "Because some infernal scoundrel has always tampered with the charge!" The accumulated grievances of the evening welled up within him. "But to-night," he went on, thrusting the cup and saucer roughly on Mrs. Poskett and spilling the tea over her beautiful silk gown, "to-night, I’ll load it myself! and, damme! I’ll take it to bed with me!" And with that he stumped off in a rage into his house, thrusting the innocent Basil and the terrified Jim out of his way with horrible objurgations. "Now, Ladies!" said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, triumphantly, "you see the man’s real nature!" Poor Mrs. Poskett’s nerves were completely shattered, and she was trying to drink tea out of her empty cup. Ruth came and sat beside her. "We shall break the Admiral down, yet, my dear. His temper is all due to conscience." "Alderman Poskett was just like that whenever he had sanded the sugar," said Mrs. Poskett, tearfully. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was devoting himself to Madame. Jim and Nanette were removing the tea-things into Madame’s house, and that rascally Jim, who was old enough to know better—but is anybody ever old enough to know better?—was making the most of his chances. Marjolaine and Barbara had retired into the Gazebo. "Yes!" twittered Barbara, continuing their conversation, "he’s learnt it! He does surround it with flowers of speech, but he says it quite clearly." "Dear Doctor Johnson!" cried Marjolaine, laughing, and clapping her hands.