“Very.” “The college grounds are very attractive.” “Oh, yes.” “Have you visited the picture gallery?” “Yes, several times.” Fish arrived--_sole meunière_. It was Lord Tilbury’s custom never to talk during the fish course. “My young friend Shotter is, I believe, a near neighbour of yours,” he said, when the _sole meunière_ was no more. “He lives next door.” “Indeed? Then you see a great deal of him, no doubt?” “I never see him.” “A most delightful young fellow,” said Lord Tilbury, sipping cider. Kay looked at him stonily. “Do you think so?” she said. Lord Tilbury’s last doubts were removed. He felt that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Like some joyous reveller out of Rabelais, he raised his glass with a light-hearted flourish. He looked as if he were about to start a drinking chorus. “Excellent cider, this, Braddock,” he boomed genially. “Most excellent.” Willoughby Braddock, who had been eying his own supply of that wholesome beverage with sullen dislike, looked at him in pained silence; and Sam, who had been sitting glumly, listening without interest to the prattle of one of the shingled girls, took it upon himself to reply. He was feeling sad and ill used. That incident before dinner had distressed him. Moreover, only a moment ago he had caught Kay’s eye for an instant across the table, and it had been cold and disdainful. He welcomed the opportunity of spoiling somebody’s life, and particularly that of an old ass like Lord Tilbury, who should have been thinking about the hereafter instead of being so infernally hearty. “I read a very interesting thing about cider the other day,” he said in a loud, compelling voice that stopped one of the rabbit-faced young men in mid-anecdote as if he had been smitten with an axe. “It appears that the farmers down in Devonshire put a dead rat in every barrel----” “My dear Shotter!” “----to give it body,” went on Sam doggedly. “And the curious thing is that when the barrels are opened, the rats are always found to have completely disappeared--showing the power of the juice.” A wordless exclamation proceeded from Lord Tilbury. He lowered his glass. Mr. Braddock was looking like one filled with a sudden great resolution. “I read it in Pyke’s _Home Companion_,” said Sam. “So it must be true.” “A little water, please,” said Lord Tilbury stiffly. “Sleddon,” said Mr. Braddock in a voice of thunder, “give me some champagne.” “Sir?” quavered the butler. He cast a swift look over his shoulder, as if seeking the moral support of Mrs. Lippett. But Mrs. Lippett was in the housekeeper’s room. “Sleddon!” “Yes, sir,” said the butler meekly. Sam was feeling completely restored to his usual sunny self. “Talking of Pyke’s _Home Companion_,” he said, “did you take my advice and read that serial of Cordelia Blair’s, Lord Tilbury?” “I did not,” replied His Lordship shortly. “You should. Miss Blair is a very remarkable woman.” Kay raised her eyes.