Really he might have been excused had he taken her to be the cook instead of the social representative of the Court of St James, and he was unable to repress a caustic smile on recollecting her appearance that afternoon, with her hat awry, crammed with _Maréchal Niel_ roses, hot, and decoiffed, flourishing a pair of garden-gauntlets as she issued her commands. What a contrast to his own Mamma--“so different,” ... and his thoughts returned to Intriguer--“dear Intriguer, ...” that if only to vex his father’s ghost, he would one day turn into a Jesuit college! The Confessional should be fitted in the paternal study, and engravings of the Inquisition, or the sweet faces of Lippi and Fra Angelico, replace the Agrarian certificates and tiresome trophies of the chase; while the crack of the discipline in Lent would echo throughout the house! How “useful” his friend Robbie Renard would have been; but alas poor Robbie. He had passed through life at a rapid canter, having died at nineteen.... Musingly he lit a cigarette. Through the open window a bee droned in on the blue air of evening and closing his eyes he fell to considering whether the bee of one country would understand the remarks of that of another. The effect of the soil of a nation, had it consequences upon its Flora? Were plants influenced at their roots? People sometimes spoke (and especially ladies) of the language of flowers ... the pollen therefore of an English rose would probably vary, not inconsiderably, from that of a French, and a bee born and bred at home (at _Intriguer_ for instance) would be at a loss to understand (it clearly followed) the conversation of one born and bred, here, abroad. A bee’s idiom varied then, as did man’s! And he wondered, this being proved the case, where the best bees’ accents were generally acquired.... Opening his eyes, he perceived his former school chum, Lionel Limpness--Lord Tiredstock’s third (and perhaps most gifted) son, who was an honorary attaché at the Embassy, standing over him, his spare figure already arrayed in an evening suit. “Sorry to hear you’re off colour, Old Dear!” he exclaimed, sinking down upon the couch beside his friend. “I’m only a little shaken, Lionel...: have a cigarette.” “And so you’re off to Chedorlahomor, Old Darling?” Lord Tiredstock’s third son said. “I suppose so ...” the only son of Lord Intriguer replied. “Well, I wish I was going too!” “It would be charming, Lionel, of course to have you: but they might appoint you Vice-Consul at Sodom, or something?” “Why _Vice_? Besides...! There’s no consulate there yet,” Lord Tiredstock’s third son said, examining the objects upon the portable altar, draped in prelatial purple of his friend. “Turn over, Old Dear, while I chastise you!” he exclaimed, waving what looked to be a tortoiseshell lorgnon to which had been attached three threads of “cerulean” floss silk. “Put it down, Lionel, and don’t be absurd.” “Over we go. Come on.” “Really, Lionel.”