Mrs. Lancaster bent a stiff head, Miss Lancaster and Miss Gertrude Lancaster did likewise. Ted shook hands. "Is your brother going to make a speech?" Gertrude asked as Nell sat down beside her. "Yes. When are they going to start?" "I don’t know. The whole thing is an awful bore, isn’t it?" "No; I love it." "Really? Alicia," turning to her sister, "Miss O’Brien is actually enjoying herself!" "Really? How queer! We only came because we thought dear Mr. Yovil would be hurt if we refused." Up came Denis. "I say, can’t you squeeze me in somehow?" Gertrude unbent and laughed as he sat down between her and Nell. Sheila Pat, always earnest, trotted gravely at her host’s heels till he released her. Even then she watched. He was standing talking to an imposing matron when he felt a sharp little nip on his arm. He looked down and met Sheila Pat’s chiding eyes. "You’ve spoken to her _twice_! I would have thought you’d remember her—_by her nose_!" The whisper was loud; he muttered a hasty excuse and fled. But he fled in the wrong direction. After him ran Sheila Pat. "You haven’t spoken _once_ to the lady in the bathing dress!" In her eagerness her voice rose, and several pairs of eyes glanced instinctively across the room to where a lady in a red and white striped silk gown sat amiably looking on, and several people hid smiles. "Ted isn’t a bit nervous," Gertrude Lancaster confided to Nell. "He’s quite calm and cool. Now, that poor Cuthbert Pennington who’s just been introduced to you is all on wires about it." Nell looked across to where Ted lounged, talking to an old gentleman. "Is he convinced he’ll win the prize?" "Oh, I don’t know. But nothing ever troubles him, I think. Can you catch his eye? I want to ask him about a dinner-party—I _can’t_ make him look this way!" "Isn’t it unkind to disturb him? He looks so comfortable." "Oh, no—oh, that’s it. Now he’ll come." He came slowly and stood before them. "You want me?" Gertrude chattered about an approaching dinner-party, then she turned to join in another conversation. Ted stood silent. Nell glanced up at him. "Nothing ever troubles him," rang in her ears. She frowned impatiently. "Poor Mr. Pennington!" she said softly. He glanced across at Pennington, surrounded, the centre of a noisy group, and raised his eyebrows. "He’s nervous about his speech. He," there was the faintest accent on the "he," "doesn’t feel sure he will win the Shakespeare." "How queer! Surely each one in his heart is convinced he’ll pull it off!" There was an odd mocking note in his voice. "Only the conceited ones!" she laughed. There was a little pause. She looked up at him, smiling. "_You_ feel as if you will win it, don’t you?" she said amiably. "Thanks. I take it, Miss O’Brien." "The speeches are going to begin," observed Gertrude, turning round.