"We shall have barely time to dress, dear papa," said Miss Lloyd, increasing the speed of her horse, as she seemed to dread the Welsh proclivities of her parent; "and remember that we have quite a dinner-party to-day." "Yes," added Dora; "two country M.P.s are coming; but, O dear! they will talk nothing but blue-book with papa, or about the crops, fat pigs, and the county pack; and shake their heads about ministerial policy and our foreign prestige, whatever that may be. Then we have an Indian colonel with only half a liver, the doctor says, and two Indian judges without any at all." "Dora!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd in a tone of expostulation. "Well, it is what the doctor said," persisted Dora; "and if he is wrong can I help it?" "But people don't talk of such things." "Then people shouldn't have them." "A wild Welsh girl this," said Sir Madoc; "neither schooling in Switzerland nor London has tamed her." "And we are to have several county gentlemen who are great in the matters of turnips, top-dressing, and Welsh mutton; four young ladies, each with a flirtation on hand; and four old ones, deep in religion and scandal, flannel and coals for the poor; so, Mr. Hardinge, you and Mr. Caradoc will be quite a double relief to us--to me, certainly." "O, Dora, how your tongue runs on!" exclaimed Winifred. "And then we have Lady Naseby to act as materfamilias, and play propriety for us all in black velvet and diamonds. Winny, eldest daughter of the house, is evidently unequal to the task." "And the coming fête," said I, "is it in honour of anything in particular?" "Yes, something very particular indeed," replied Dora. "Of what?" "Me." "You!" "My birthday--I shall be eighteen," she added, shaking back the heavy masses of her golden hair. "And she has actually promised to have one round dance with Lord Pottersleigh," said Winny, laughing heartily. "I did but promise out of mischief; I trust, however, the Viscount will leave off his goloshes for that day, though we are to dance on the grass, or I hope he may forget all about it. Old Potter, I call him," added the young lady in a _sotto-voce_ to me, "at least, when the Cressinghams are not present." "Why them especially?" "Because he is such a particular friend of theirs." This was annoyance number two; for this wealthy but senile old peer had been a perpetual adorer of Lady Estelle, favoured too, apparently, by her mother, and had been on more than one occasion a _bête noire_ to me; and now I was to meet him here again! "Papa has told you that I mean to part with my poor pet goat--Carneydd Llewellyn, so called from the mountain whence he came. He is to be sent to the regiment--in your care, too." "Why deprive yourself of a favourite? Why deprive it of such care as yours? Among soldiers," said I, "the poor animal will sorely miss the kindness and caresses you bestow upon it."