Frank, limping with as much dignity as possible, sat down in the chair. He got out his cigarette case and asked Priscilla not to start until he had lit his cigarette. “You don’t object to the smell, I hope,” he said politely. “Not a bit. I’d smoke myself only I don’t like it. I tried once--Sylvia Courtney was shocked. That’s rather the sort she is--but it seemed to me to have a nasty taste. You’re sure you like it, Cousin Frank? Don’t do it simply because you think you ought.” Priscilla pushed the bath-chair from behind. Frank guided the shaky front wheel by means of a long handle. They went down the avenue at an extremely rapid pace, Priscilla moving in a kind of jaunty canter. When they reached the gate Frank’s cigarette had gone out. There was a pause while he lit it again. Then he asked Priscilla to go a little less quickly. He wished his approach to the public street of the village to be as little grotesque as possible. “By the way,” said Priscilla, “have you any money?” “Certainly. How much do you want?” “That depends. I have eightpence, which ought to be enough unless you want something very expensive to drink.” “Why should we take anything to drink? We said at breakfast that we’d be back for luncheon.” “We won’t,” said Priscilla, “nor we won’t for tea. Lucky if we are for dinner.” “But Miss Lentaigne said she’d expect us. If we stay out she won’t like it.” “Let her dis.,” said Priscilla. “Now what do you want to drink? I always have lemon flavoured soda. It’s less sticky than regular lemonade. Stone ginger beer is better than either, of course, but Brannigan doesn’t keep it, I can’t imagine why not.” “If we’re going to stay out,” said Frank, “I’ll have beer, lager for choice.” “Right. Lager is twopence. Lemon flavoured soda twopence if we bring back the bottles. That will leave fourpence for biscuits which ought to be enough.” Fourpence worth of biscuits seemed to Frank an insufficient supply of food for two people who are to be on the sea for the whole day. He saw, besides, an opportunity of asserting once for all his position of superiority. He made up his mind to tip Priscilla. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin. “You get quite a lot of biscuits for fourpence,” said Priscilla, “if you go in for plain arrowroot. Of course they’re rather dull, but then you get very few of the better sorts. Take macaroons, for instance. They’re nearly a halfpenny each in Brannigan’s. Sheer robbery, I call it.” Frank, determined to do the thing handsomely if he did it at all, passed half a crown to Priscilla over the back of the bath chair. “My dear child,” he said, “buy macaroons by all means if you like them. Buy as many as you want.” Priscilla received the half-crown without any appearance of shame.