They both laughed. “Not exactly,” said Priscilla. “Well, words to that effect,” he cried. “Anyhow, whether you did or not, you’ll never say it again. Here comes Mrs. Pearce--of course you know Mrs. Pearce. I needn’t introduce her to you.” “Oh, we all know Mrs. Pearce,” cried Rosa, as the caretaker entered, bearing a tray and a smell of a grill. “Then she can introduce you to me,” said he. Mrs. Pearce, red of face and opulent of bust, stood for a moment as one amazed, looking from the young women to the young man. “Good morning, Mrs. Pearce,” cried Rosa. “Good morning, Miss Rosa--Miss Caffyn,” said the woman, nearly dropping the tray in her attempt to drop a curtsey--the curtsey of the charity school girl to a member of the Rector’s family. “Good morning,” said Priscilla. “Good morning, Miss Wadhurst.” “Thank you, Mrs. Pearce,” said the man, as she laid down her tray on the table. “Do you think you could add to your favours by hunting out a couple more plates and knives and forks, and, above all, glasses? I quite forgot to tell you that I had sent out invitations to lunch. My first guests have arrived.” “Please do not trouble; bread and cheese for us,” cried Priscilla. “What about that plover’s egg that you were trifling with--oh, I see you have laid it quietly back on the dish,” he remarked, with an ingratiating smile in the direction of Rosa. “I’m afraid,” murmured Mrs. Pearce--“I’m afraid that--that----” She was looking in the direction of the covered dish on the tray. “I’m not,” cried he. He lifted off the cover and displayed the twin halves of a chicken beautifully grilled. “She’s afraid that there isn’t enough to go round!” He pointed to the dish. “Gloriana! as if I could eat all that off my own bat! Do hurry about those plates--and, above all, don’t forget the glasses. Can you guess what the name of this hock is?” he added, turning to Rosa. “It’s Liebfraumilch, and you were not asleep after all,” cried the girl, rosy and smiling. “Not after all, but just before,” he said reassuringly, placing chairs at the table also with a good deal of assurance. But he was not so engrossed by the occupation as to fail to see the glances exchanged between the girls--glances of doubt, shot through with the enquiry, “Should we?” “What a day it is turning out, and the morning looked so fine,” said he, not gloomily, but cheerfully. “Won’t you sit down? The spatchcock’s all right, only it takes offence if it isn’t eaten at once.” “I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Rosa boldly to her friend. The man turned his head away to enable her to do so--a movement that displayed tact and not tactics. “You are extremely kind, Mr. Wingfield,” said Priscilla very formally. “I don’t suppose that we are quite in line with the precepts of the book of etiquette; and, besides, we have no business to deprive you of your lunch and----” “And sleep,” murmured Rosa.