"Very well, Mr. Collop, if you require them." He made a gesture as though again to ring; then thought better of it and went out himself, looking at his watch as he moved to the door. He had seen no one go out. It was not yet half past ten o'clock: no one would yet have started for church. He remembered with pleasure that for once in her life Victoria Mosel had come to breakfast. He ferreted them all out, McTaggart cowering as usual--and very sad--in the old smoking-room; Galton and Vic, whom he surprised in the very act of repeating the word "putrid," he found in the library, already stale with smoke; Aunt Amelia he dragged out, almost by force, from the corner of the little morning-room where she was sitting, half somnolent, like the good mutton she was, her knitting laid aside on the Holy Day and wondering by the clock whether it was time for her to put on her bonnet (help!) for church. The Professor he had the good luck to catch at the very last moment as he was making for the glass doors of the hall, all ready muffled up for a walk. As for Marjorie, he had to go and find her in her room where she was desperately locked in, miserable. "Mr. Collop has got something to tell us, my dear. Won't you come down?" "Blast him!" came in tearful, broken tones from within. "No, my dear, but please do come down. He really wants us all." "I don't believe it's any use--no use at all, the rotter!" broke out that tearful voice. "Marjorie, dear, please come." "Very well"--with a grunt from within--"but it's no use!" So the shepherd got his flock together. He was in a strange mood that the occasion was ceremonial, and he felt a fool. He almost counted heads as he roped in his little herd. They were all there. They filtered into the West Room, expecting little, and annoyed in their various ways; Marjorie hideous with recent tears, Aunt Amelia almost baa-a-ing, the Professor inept, McTaggart desperately out of place, the puller of horses more sullen than ever, and ah! the triumphant Victoria Mosel, cool as the woodland goddess of old songs--but smoking. [Illustration: _Birds of the Empire. II.--The Parrot Attaboy, out of action._] They stood huddled in the West Room under that Sunday morning light, looking on the ravaged furniture, the staring pink circle where the now demolished glass had saved the paper from fading, the Parrot's cage--but gazing above all on the immortal Collop and awaiting his great news. In that solemn and expectant silence--the chimes for church were ringing--the parrot sneezed three times, with a grievance, and very hoarsely muttered "Attaboy!" and shivered. It had a cold in the head. Nor did Lord Galton wince--though that parrot had suddenly revealed to him a world of things about his cousin's conversations when his back was turned. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Mr. Collop was standing dramatically in the midst of that large apartment, a squat tower of triumphant modesty and unassailable success.