‘Indeed, Miss Bugg, and how is that?’ the Pharisee enquired politely, as he carefully wiped one sleeve and thereby allowed the water to trickle on to the other. ‘Well, you see, I disapprove most strongly of all those ballet girls looking like Lady Saliva in the streets of Coventry.’ De Beresford surveyed her solemnly for half a minute and then dropped the pole and collapsed heavily on to a heap of cushions, while Miss Bugg, who takes herself very seriously, prattled on about the elevating influence of Shakespeare. We glided quietly and peacefully into the bank, and there we stuck till the Pilot came along and pulled us off, but the Pharisee was too exhausted to renew his labours, and I was obliged to take his place till we reached Marston. We arrived there first with the Pilot, and the others turned up at intervals, each punt bringing a goodly assortment of hampers and stone jars. At last we had all assembled, the cloths were laid on a nice piece of level grass, and the Dowager was comfortably settled on an air pillow and a collection of punt cushions, when Ophelia emitted a melancholy gurgle and cried tearfully, ‘I’ve forgotten Lady Blitherington’s little flask.’ ‘Pas beaucoup, Ophelia,’ chortled his lordship, as he produced a very diminutive silver bottle from the lining of his panama and gave it to the Bugg. ‘I knew you’d lose it, old girl, so I just took the liberty of removing it from your pocket when we landed at the rollers.’ Ophelia heaved a sigh of satisfaction and settled down beside the Dowager, while we all bestowed ourselves conveniently around the cloth, each one as far as possible next to the lady of his choice. ‘A little of the pink fish with the yellow blanket, thank you, Mr. Cochrane,’ said Maisie cheerfully as I offered her a variety of tasty dishes; the Pilot talked a lot about that picnic, but he certainly managed it very well all the same. Blitherington, who was seated only a few feet off, in fact just the other side of Muriel, was what Maisie described as ‘on the war-path,’ and we heard him asking Miss MacNeill some most exciting riddles. He absolutely refused to share them with us, until Reggie handed him a dish of cold chicken and ham, and then after looking at it solemnly for half a minute he turned his anxious gaze on me and enquired ‘Do you know, my ancient lord of creation, why hotel chickens are like ballet-girls?’ ‘No,’ I answered feebly, I always seem to say ‘no,’ when I’m asked anything catchy, I don’t think a fine frank open nature like mine is adapted to discovering puzzles. The incorrigible Blithers just chirruped ungrammatically ‘It’s because they’re all legs;’ and by the time Lady Blitherington had turned her lorgnettes in his direction he was busily engaged carving a saddle of lamb for his fair neighbour. ‘Don’t encourage him, Mr. Cochrane,’ Muriel whispered to me, ‘If Blithers once gets loose he’s apt to travel quite a distance, and he only begins where Auntie draws the line.’