Lady Blitherington ensconced herself in the other arm-chair, while Squiff, who has a fair baritone voice, sang us ‘Father O’Flynn’ with more vigour than accuracy. Just before ten an English waiter--born in Hamburg--appeared with what Ophelia persisted in calling ‘a dish of tea,’ and that good soul disappeared in search of Jacob’s own saucer in order that he too might enjoy a little light refreshment before retiring to the elaborately quilted basket awaiting him in her room. I parted from Freddy and Squiff at Carfax, and on entering our rooms found Reggie and the Pilot enveloped in a positive cloud of smoke, discussing everything in general and nothing in particular. ‘Accrington’s people are coming up on Thursday, Martha,’ said Reggie, as I entered the room. ‘Rot, Reggie,’ said the Pilot, ‘You mean Sybil Accrington is coming; I don’t suppose you care whether her father and mother come here or remain in Liverchester.’ ‘It seems to me, Reggie,’ I said, ‘that what with Maisie and Sybil Accrington and others, your hands will be pretty full this week.’ ‘The pressing problem of the moment,’ said the Pilot, gravely, as he spread himself in front of the fireplace, ‘is, how many pounds of strawberries are required to feed five healthy English girls, three elderly ladies, two lapdogs, and last but not least, eight undergraduates. Freddy’s arranged a picnic for Sunday, and left me to cater for it with his usual cheek.’ ‘Which is his usual cheek, Pilot?’ asked Reggie in his most irritating manner. ‘O the right if it’s left, but if that isn’t right the left,’ said the Pilot gravely, as he heaved a book at Reggie and a sigh to himself, and drifted off to bed. When Reggie and I came down at 10.30 next morning we found the Pilot interrogating Mrs. McNab as to how she thought trifle and Charlotte Russe would go with cold lamb and salmon mayonnaise. The worthy lady, whose brain already reeled at the thought of the entertainments to be given at our lodgings during the week, was standing in the doorway murmuring to herself ‘hadd a piece of nutmeg an bile the ’ole in a pudden’ clorth.’ Soon after she had gone, a large brake stopped at our door and the occupants in no mild terms requested Reggie and the Pilot to come out at once, if they did not wish to go where the refrigerator is of no avail. They obeyed the call, but the Pilot in addition to his cricket bag carried several wine lists and Hooper’s catalogue of ‘cold dishes for picnic parties.’ In order to avoid a meeting with the Bugg, of whom I foresaw we should see a great deal, I motored over to Banbury for lunch with de Beresford. Thus it befell that I missed the most exciting scene of the day when Jacob fell into the river and was rescued by a Humane Society’s man, while the Bugg who had fainted on the Barabbas’ barge was revived by a drop of the bargeman’s private store of brandy.