“A remarkable situation,” said Mrs. Tatty, scenting the neighbourhood of the pit with uplifted nostrils. “Mr. Richardson himself never imagined a more pronounced. Sure there is an affinity in circumstance--and therein lies the explanation.” “It was like poor Julia’s experience,” said the little cousin from London. “Only that Julia was _trop embarrassée de sa personne_ to extricate herself with grace.” “Oh!” cried Angela. “I blush to hear you talk of grace.” “’Twas after meat, my dear,” said Mrs. Tatty, with a splendid benevolence of humour; and immediately sat down, morally, on the brink. Mr. Tuke laboriously strained at a camel of wit. “Before, before!” he cried--“for ’twas the grace that introduced food for reflection.” “Am I that” cried Miss Royston. “Then I must be _angélique glacée_. But my poor _bréviaire_, that I cried to have lost! Had I had that charm with me, no accident would have befallen.” “But fifty others failed to save you,” said the baronet, with a low bow, and, it must be admitted, considerable gallantry; for his back was yet stiff with dipping for the abominable trinket. And at this point Sir David entered the room. His sister ran at him, and scolded him with twenty little tricks of endearment. “Sure, sir,” she cried, “this is pretty behaviour to your guests!”--and she came forward on his arm, mutely daring slander to deny perfection to so beautiful a couple. The little gentleman was charmed to meet his new neighbour, and said so with amazing condescension. He was very daintily attired, and prodigal of self-important courtesy to all. “I passed your fellow,” he said, “hob-nobbin’ with a gipsy hag. I know the witch by sight. He caught me up later, and we fell a-talkin’. We’ve been neighbours, you know, ever since I can remember. There’s no beast-leech like him in all the county.” “Indeed?” said Mr. Tuke dryly. “You’d not think it, eh? It’s truth, sir. Why,” said the baronet, “I don’t s’pose the fellow’s ever fired a fowling-piece in his life; but he knows more of the habits of animals, ground and winged, than any dozen sportsmen in the parish. Ain’t that so, Charlie?” “That’s so, by Gad, Davy,” said the squireen addressed, greatly stimulated and emboldened by the presence of his host. “He cured my bitch Daisy of a capped hock,” said another; and then looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken. “They are all Jack-puddings to showman Davy,” whispered Miss Angela, looking up at her cavalier with a waggish twinkle. “Come!” cried the master of “Chatters.” “Who’s for a game? Let’s have ‘Pinch without Laughin’.’” The squireens boisterously assented; but Miss Royston and the cousin from London cried “No! no!” feeling their little powdered noses in jeopardy. So they played “Hot Cockles,” and “Jack’s Alive,” and “Shadow Buff,” and enjoyed themselves after the light-hearted manner of the period, the problems of which were, indeed, mostly exercised in merriment.