"Mr. and Mrs. Grebby, Lady MacDonald, Mrs. Mounteagle," she continues. "Now, Ma dear, you sit here," pulling up a chair between Giddy and Lady MacDonald. "Loosen your shawl, or you'll scorch, and I will give you some tea." Mrs. Grebby gazes in awestruck wonder at the grandly dressed visitors, and her daughter's elaborate clothes. Mr. Grebby stumps round the room, remarking on everything. "Well, there! What do you say to _that_ for a picture," addressing his wife. "Tell Ma to come here, Eleanor, I want 'er to see this 'orse, and the lady on the moon in the next frame. I wish you could paint pictures, my girl; but maybe Mr. Roche will 'ave you taught." Giddy flushes scarlet. Lady MacDonald fans herself violently with the screen. Mrs. Grebby takes the tiny cup Eleanor hands her, and turns it round to examine it. Then her eyes fall on the slices of thin bread and butter, the dainty biscuits, and minute squares of buttered toast. "Don't you get 'ungry, dearie?" she asks. "I thought you'd be sure to have a knife-and-fork tea, living in this style." Her daughter laughs heartily. A wicked desire to shock Lady MacDonald, as Giddy has so often excited her to do on previous occasions, seizes Eleanor. "Oh, _no_, Ma! We have big dinners at eight o'clock. Five courses and serviettes. You ask Lady MacDonald." "I don't call this a cup," declares Mr. Grebby, grinning broadly as Eleanor hands him his tea. "It's more like an acorn!" He takes half a dozen slices of bread and butter and munches them hungrily. "I'm a bit peckish, my girl," he says. "But then we've had a long day, and fastin' don't agree with me. We went to the Tower, Madame Tussaud's, and the Exhibition of Tortures in Leicester Square. We liked that best of all." "But what did you do with Rover?" asks Eleanor, exciting the dog to jump on the sofa and patting his wet nose. "We left him at Cousin Harriett's. We can stay the night here with you, and after that we are going to put up a bit at her lodging-house in Bloomsbury. Ma was set on bringing old Rover to see you, as we think he won't last long now." "The dear fellow!" murmurs Eleanor, cutting the pink cake. "Some more tea, Lady MacDonald?" "_No_, thank you," and the severity of the tone startles Eleanor.