Then came the men. Uncle Tim had a case of silver brushes to present and he mumbled something in his beard about them. George Trenchard had some old glass, he flung back his head and laughed, gripped his father by the hand, shouted something down Aunt Sarah’s trumpet. Aunt Sarah herself had given, at an earlier hour, her offering because she was so deaf and her brother’s voice so feeble that on earlier occasions, her presentation, protracted and embarrassing, had affected the whole evening. She sat there now, like an ancient Boadicea, looking down grimly upon the presents, as though they were so many spoils won by a raid. It was time for the old man to make a Speech: It was—“Thank ’ye, Thank ’ye—very good of you all—very. It’s pleasant, all of us together—very pleasant. I never felt better in my life and I hope you’re all the same.... Thank ’ye, my dears. Thank ’ye.” The Ceremony was thus concluded; instantly they were all standing about, laughing, talking, soon they would be all in the hall and then they would separate, George and Timothy and Bob to talk, perhaps, until early hours in the morning.... Here is old Rocket to wheel grandfather’s chair along to his bedroom. “Well, Father, here’s Rocket come for you.” “All right, my dear, I’m ready....” But Rocket had not come for his master. Rocket, perplexity, dismay, upon his countenance, was plainly at a loss, and for Rocket to be at a loss! “Hullo, Rocket, what is it?” “There’s a gentleman, sir—apologises profoundly for the lateness of the hour—wouldn’t disturb you but the fog—his card....” VI Until he passes away to join the glorious company of Trenchards who await him, will young Henry Trenchard remember everything that then occurred—exactly he will remember it and to its tiniest detail. It was past ten o’clock and never in the memory of anyone present had the Ceremony before been invaded.... Astonishing impertinence on the part of someone! Astonishing bravery also did he only realise it! “It’s the fog, you know,” said Henry’s mother. “What’s the matter!” screamed Aunt Sarah. “Somebody lost in the fog.” “Somebody what?” “Lost in the Fog.” “In the what?” “IN THE FOG!” “Oh!... _How_ did you say?” “FOG!” George Trenchard then returned, bringing with him a man. The man stood in the doorway, confused (as, indeed, it was only right for him to be), blushing, holding his bowler hat nervously in his hand, smiling that smile with which one seeks to propitiate strangers.