She was frightened. Again she had the sense of something abnormal. Then she said, “What is all this nonsense?” and folded him in her arms. VIII Ansell stood looking at his breakfast-table, which was laid for four instead of two. His bedmaker, equally peevish, explained how it had happened. Last night, at one in the morning, the porter had been awoke with a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Elliot said that all these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell’s. “The fools have sent the original order as well. Here’s the lemon-sole for two. I can’t move for food.” “The note being ambiguous, the Kitchens judged best to send it all.” She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respectful, half-pitying way, much as one speaks of Parliament. “Who’s to pay for it?” He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys entombed in an omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallid pie. “And who’s to wash it up?” said the bedmaker to her help outside. Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who kept opposite. Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam. “Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?” “No,” said Tilliard mildly. “Well, you’d better come, and bring every one you know.” So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called to Widdrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it was too late. “Who’s to pay for it?” repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from the Buttery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray. “College coffee! How nice!” remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie. “But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sister gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils—” “He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That’s Rickie all over. Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things go bad.” “Give them to the bedder while they’re hot.” This was done. She accepted them dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment. Tilliard continued to describe his sister’s coffee machine. “What’s that?” They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs. “It sounds like a lady,” said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the piece of pie back. It fell into position like a brick. “Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?” The door opened and in came Mrs. Lewin. “Oh horrors! I’ve made a mistake.” “That’s all right,” said Ansell awkwardly. “I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?” “We expect Mr. Elliot every moment,” said Tilliard. “Don’t tell me I’m right,” cried Mrs. Lewin, “and that you’re the terrifying Mr. Ansell.” And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard warmly by the hand. “I’m Ansell,” said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim. “How stupid of me not to know it,” she gasped, and would have gone on to I know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie.