“How about drinks?” said Mr. Braddock, and was reminded by the word of a grievance which had been rankling within his bosom ever since his last expedition to the dining room. He pulled down the corners of his white waistcoat and ran his finger round the inside of his collar. “Mrs. Lippett,” he said, “I--er--I was outside the dining room just now----” “Were you, Master Willie? You must not fuss so. Everything will be quite all right.” “----and I overheard you telling Sleddon not to let me have any champagne to-night,” said Mr. Braddock, reddening at the outrageous recollection. The housekeeper stiffened. “Yes, I did, Master Willie. And your dear mother, if she were still with us, would have given the very same instructions--after what my daughter Claire told me of what occurred the other night and the disgraceful condition you were in. What your dear mother would have said, I don’t know!” Mrs. Lippett’s conversation during the last twenty years of Willoughby Braddock’s life had dealt largely with speculations as to what his dear mother would have said of various ventures undertaken or contemplated by him. “You must fight against the craving, Master Willie. Remember your Uncle George!” Mr. Braddock groaned in spirit. One of the things that make these old retainers so hard to bear is that they are so often walking editions of the _chroniques scandaleuses_ of the family. It sometimes seemed to Mr. Braddock that he could not move a step in any direction without having the awful example of some erring ancestor flung up against him. “Well, look here,” he said, with weak defiance, “I want champagne to-night.” “You will have cider, Master Willie.” “But I hate cider.” “Cider is good for you, Master Willie,” said Mrs. Lippett firmly. The argument was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. The housekeeper left the room, and presently Sleddon, the butler, entered, escorting Lord Tilbury. “Ha, my dear fellow,” said Lord Tilbury, bustling in. He beamed upon his host as genially as the Napoleonic cast of his countenance would permit. He rather liked Willoughby Braddock, as he rather liked all very rich young men. “How are you?” said Mr. Braddock. “Awfully good of you to come at such short notice.” “My dear fellow!” He spoke heartily, but he had, as a matter of fact, been a little piqued at being invited to dinner on the morning of the feast. He considered that his eminence entitled him to more formal and reverential treatment. And though he had accepted, having had previous experience of the excellence of Mr. Braddock’s cook, he felt that something in the nature of an apology was due to him and was glad that it had been made. “I asked you at the last moment,” explained Mr. Braddock, “because I wasn’t sure till this morning that Sam Shotter would be able to come. I thought it would be jolly for him, meeting you out of the office, don’t you know.”