"Something sweet," says Dulce, going up to him, and laying her soft arms lovingly round his neck. "Like yourself," says Sir Christopher. "Now that is sarcasm," says Miss Dulce, patting his fresh old cheek very fondly. "I meant chocolates, or burnt almonds, or even everton toffy, if all things fail." "And what shall I bring the others?" asks Sir Christopher, laughing; "you have a sweet tooth, you naughty child, perhaps they haven't." "_I_ have," says Portia, turning round on her seat. "Bring us as much as ever you can." "Burnt almonds are my chief delight," murmurs Julia, affectedly and somewhat absently, being sick with grief, because she cannot reconcile it to her conscience that the stem of an arum lily should be peacock blue. "Bring some crackers," says the Boodie, suddenly warming into life, and so far condescending to notice Sir Christopher as to roll round her portly person until she lies prone upon her back. From this dignified position she eyes Sir Christopher magisterially. "_Real_ crackers, mind," she says severely, "that will say c-r-r-rack, and show fire! those last you brought"--contemptuously--"were a humbug!" "Elizabeth!" exclaims her mother in a would-be shocked tone (the Boodie rejoices in that lengthy name), "what _are_ you saying?" "The truth," says the Boodie, unflinchingly; "the last he brought were a reg'lar swindle--ask Jacky; why they wouldn't go off even if you _stamped_ on 'em." She so plainly--by the severity of her glance--conveys to every one the impression that she believes Sir Christopher on that last unfortunate occasion had purposely bought for them crackers beneath notice, that the poor old gentleman, though innocent of offence, feels himself growing warm beneath her relentless gaze. "It wasn't my fault, my dear," he says, apologetically; "I quite meant them to go off. I did, indeed." "Perhaps so. Take care, however, it doesn't occur again," says the Boodie, with so careful, though unconscious, an imitation of her mother's manner when addressing her maid, that they all laugh, whereupon she rolls back again to her former position, and takes no further notice of them. Just at this moment Fabian enters the room. "Going to drive to Warminster?" he asks his uncle. "Yes." "Not Bess, I hope?" alluding to a very objectionable young mare in the stables. "Yes," says Sir Christopher again. "Why not?" "She is utterly unsafe. About the worst thing in chestnuts I ever met. I took her out myself the other day--rode her straight from this to Grange; and I confess, I should not care to do it again. Take one of the other horses, and let that beast lie quiet until you can get rid of her." "Nonsense!" says Sir Christopher, scornfully; "I wouldn't part with her for any money. She is the greatest beauty this side of the county." "Her beauty is her one point; for the rest, she is vindictive and ill-mannered."