"Another friend of yours, Spennie?" inquired Sir Thomas politely, eying the red-haired speaker with interest. "It's----" He looked appealingly at Jimmy. "It's only my man," said Jimmy. "Spike," he added in an undertone, "to the woods. Chase yourself. It's not up to you to do stunts on this beat. Fade away." "Sure," said the abashed Spike, restored to a sense of his position. "Dat's right. I've got wheels in me coco, that's what I've got, comin' buttin' in here. Sorry, Mr. Chames. Sorry, gents. Me for the tall grass." He trotted away. "Your man seems to have a pretty taste in literature," said Sir Thomas to Jimmy. "Well, my dear, finished your chat with the porter?" Lady Blunt had come up, flushed and triumphant, having left the solitary porter a demoralized wreck. "I'm through," she announced crisply. "Well, Spencer? How are you? Who's this? Don't stand gaping, child. Who's your friend?" Spennie explained with some incoherence that his name was Pitt. His uncle had shaken him; the arrival of his aunt seemed to unnerve him completely. "Pleased to meet you," snapped Lady Blunt. "Spencer, where are your trunks? Left them behind, I suppose? No? Well, that's a surprise. Tell that porter to look after them. If you have any trouble with him, mention it to me. _I'll_ make him jump around. Where's the automobile? Outside? Where? Take me to it." Lady Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anything else in the world. "I'm afraid," said Spennie in an abject manner, as they left the station, "that it will be rather a bit of a frightful squash--what I mean to say is, I hardly think we shall all find room in the auto. I see they have only sent the small one." Lady Blunt stopped short, and fixed him with a glittering eye. "I know what it is, Spencer," she said. "You never telegraphed to your mother to tell her what time you were going to arrive." Spennie opened his mouth feebly, but apparently changing his mind, made no reply. "My dear," said Sir Thomas smoothly, "we must not expect too much of Spennie." "Pshaw!" This was a single shot from the Maxim. The baited youth looked vainly for assistance to Jimmy. "But--er--aunt," said Spennie. "Really, I--er--I only just caught the train. Didn't I, Pitt?" "What? Oh, yes. Got in just as it was moving." "That was it. I really hadn't time to telegraph. Had I, Pitt?" "Not a minute." "And how was it you were so late?" Spennie plunged into an explanation, feeling all the time that he was making things worse for himself. Nobody is at his best in the matter of explanations if a lady whom he knows to be possessed of a firm belief in the incurable weakness of his intellect is looking fixedly at him during the recital. A prolonged conversation with Lady Blunt always made him feel exactly as if he were being tied into knots. "All this," said Sir Thomas, as his nephew paused for breath, "is very, very characteristic of our dear Spennie." Our dear Spennie broke into a perspiration.