But it soon became plain that they would not be off quite so soon. When the thunderstorm with its wild blustering had departed, it left behind it, not the blue sky that might reasonably have been expected, but a tame flock of clouds that lumbered onward, discharging their contents upon the earth beneath with no great show of spirit, but with the depressing persistency of the mediocre. “Hopeless!” sighed Priscilla. “Horrid!” exclaimed Rosa. After a few more minutes of waiting, the word “hungry” followed in alliterative sequence from both of them. “If we could get round to Mrs. Pearce we might have some bread and butter,” suggested Rosa. (Mrs. Pearce was the name of the caretaker, and her premises were naturally at the other side of the Georgian mansion.) “If we made a rush for the lodge we might have some plovers’ eggs,” said Priscilla. Rendered desperate and, consequently, courageous by the thought of such dainties, one of the pair suggested the possibility of attracting the attention of the caretaker by ringing the door bell. The idea was a daring one, but they felt that their situation was so desperate as to make a desperate remedy pardonable, if reasonably formulated. Hallo! there was no need to pull the bell; looking about for the handle, they found that the hall door was ajar to the extent of four or five inches. “Careless of Mrs. Pearce! We must speak seriously to her about this,” said Rosa. “When we have eaten her bread and butter,” whispered Priscilla, with a sagacious nod. They passed into the great square hall, with its imposing pillars supporting the beams of the ceiling, and then they stopped abruptly, for they found themselves confronted by a vivid smell of tobacco smoke. “Has Mother Pearce been indulging?” whispered Rosa. “Oh, dear, no; it’s not that sort of tobacco,” replied the sagacious Priscilla. “No; it only means that Mr. Dunning has been paying a visit of inspection.” (Mr. Dunning was the agent of the estate.) They passed without further hesitation through the tobacco barrier, and seeing one of the doors open just beyond, they pushed through it and entered the room which they knew to be the library. They had been in the house more than once, before the days of its emptiness, and so knew their way about it. “Hallo! we’re in luck,” said Rosa, pointing to where the table was laid with a cloth and plates, bread, cheese, biscuits, lettuce, and actually plovers’ eggs. There was, however, only one knife and fork, only one glass, and only one bottle--it was a bottle of hock, and Rosa hastened to read its label--Liebfraumilch. “Mr. Dunning is here on business and is having a scratch lunch,” said Priscilla. “Liebfraumilch is a lovely wine, taking it year in and year out. Of course there are exceptionally good years of Liebfraumilch; but taking it all round it is a good sound wine.”