"I remember," said old Mrs. Touchwood, "that beans were a favorite dish of poor Papa, though I myself always liked peas better." "I like peas," Harold proclaimed. "I like peas, too," cried Frida excitedly. "Frida," said her father, pulling out with a click one of the graver tenor stops in his voice, "we do not talk at table about our likes and dislikes." Edith indorsed this opinion with a grave nod at Frida, or rather with a solemn inclination of the head as if she were bowing to an altar. "But I like new potatoes best of all," continued Harold. "My gosh, all buttery!" Laurence screwed up his eye in a disgusted wince, looked down his nose at his plate, and drew a shocked cork from his throat. "Hush," said Hilda. "Didn't you hear what Uncle Laurence said, darling?" She spoke as one speaks to children in church when the organ begins; one felt that she was inspired by social tact rather than by any real reverence for the clergyman. "Well, I do like new potatoes, and I like asparagus." Frida was just going to declare for asparagus, too, when she caught her father's eye and choked. "Evidently the vegetable that Frida likes best," said John, riding buoyantly upon the gale of Frida's convulsions, "is an artichoke." It is perhaps lucky for professional comedians that rich uncles and judges rarely go on the stage; their occupation might be even more arduous if they had to face such competitors. Anyway, John had enough success with his joke to feel much more hopeful of being able to find suitable presents in Galton for Harold and Frida; and in the silence of exhaustion that succeeded the laughter he broke the news of his having to go into town and dispatch an urgent telegram that very afternoon, mentioning incidentally that he might see about a dog-cart, and, of course, at the same time a horse. Everybody applauded his resolve except his brother-in-law who looked distinctly put out. "But you won't be gone before I get back?" John asked. Laurence and Edith exchanged glances fraught with the unuttered solemnities of conjugal comprehension. "Well, I _had_ wanted to have a talk over things with you after lunch," Laurence explained. "In fact, I have a good deal to talk over. I should suggest driving you in to Galton, but I find it impossible to talk freely while driving. Even our poor old pony has been known to shy. Yes, indeed, poor old Primrose often shies." John mentally blessed the aged animal's youthful heart, and said, to cover his relief, that old maids were often more skittish than young ones. "Why?" asked Harold. Everybody felt that Harold's question was one that should not be answered. "You wouldn't understand, darling," said his mother; and the dining-room became tense with mystery. "Of course, if we could have dinner put forward half an hour," said Laurence, dragging the conversation out of the slough of sex, "we could avail ourselves of the moon." "Yes, you see," Edith put in eagerly, "it wouldn't be so dark with the moon."