‘Thanks, I have one,’ says Crosby. He had accepted Dom’s offer of a cigarette without hesitation, and, indeed, would have smoked it to the bitter end rather than offend any member of the little group around him. They all please him; they all seem in unison with him—frank, happy, rollicking youngsters, without a scrap of real harm amongst them. Perhaps the secret of their success with Crosby lies in the fact that, in spite of his being well in the thirties, he is still a boy himself at heart, with a spice of mischief in him not to be controlled. The cigarette, however, proves very tolerable, and Susan having seated herself where he can distinctly see her, he feels that he is going to spend an uncommonly pleasant afternoon. ‘It’s a shame to say Betty’s got a temper,’ says Susan. ‘I’m sure she hasn’t—not a bad one, any way.’ ‘You needn’t defend me, Susan,’ says Betty, clasping her long, lean arms behind her head. ‘I prefer to do it for myself, and’—with a fell glance at the doomed Dominick—‘I think I know where revenge lies.’ ‘I give in!’ cries Mr. Fitzgerald frantically. ‘Betty, pax!’ ‘Never,’ says Betty. ‘If you burn my fly-book a second time, I warn you that there will be murder,’ says Dom; and then Betty has mercy. ‘A public retractation, then!’ demands she viciously. ‘A hundred of them. I swear to you, Mr. Crosby, that I wronged her, and that her temper is like that of an angel, and not a bit like our Aunt Jeremiah’s’—softly, ‘May I be forgiven!’ ‘Did you hear her in church?’ asks Carew, turning to Crosby. ‘Aunt Jemima, I mean, not Betty. She was mad with Sarah this morning——’ Crosby looks rather helplessly round him. ‘Another sister?’ asks he. ‘No, no,’ says Susan, whilst the others explode; and Crosby, unable to resist their gaiety, joins in the merriment. ‘A servant——’ ‘Had a magenta feather in her hat!’ cries Betty, roaring with laughter, ‘and Aunt Jemima hates feathers, and——’ ‘This is my story, Betty,’ interrupts Carew; ‘I insist on telling it. When the Paradise hymn began, Aunt Jemima saw the feather——’ ‘Pounced upon Sarah!’ cries Susan, who is nearly in hysterics. ‘Oh, did you see her? She sang the most dreadful things at her until the poor girl nearly fainted, and——’ ‘And then our only auntie punched her in the back with her Prayer-book,’ puts in Dom. ‘Really, Betty, I did wrong you! You aren’t in it with her. She cussed and swore like anything, but worse than all, Susan, was her ribald rendering of music-hall songs within the sainted precincts of the church.’ ‘Nonsense, Dom! you spoil the story by exaggeration.’ ‘Exaggeration! My dear girl, didn’t you hear her? Why, she was shouting it! She got rather mixed up in the music—I’m bound to say the two times are not the same—but she managed it wonderfully. You heard her, Carew, didn’t you? ‘“Where did you get that hat?” I waited for the rest, but I suppose her courage failed her, or else the organ drowned it; at all events, the second line,