are no more larks like this to-night. In my opinion, Dimmy, all men are blackguards!” “Oh, my dear Grace!” I cried, with a face of agony. “No, old chap, I didn’t mean quite that,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I hope I’ve not hurt you.” Her penitence was charming. Now I could see that she was much distressed in mind in regard to the behaviour of her wayward charges. She was longing for a little sympathy. What a golden opportunity! How the Fates were playing into my hands! “My dear Grace,” said I, “you are much too good to these ungrateful beggars.” “They are not ungrateful, and they are not beggars,” said their sister; “they’re awful good sorts, every one of ’em, and don’t you dare to say they’re not, Dimmy, or you and I’ll quarrel. It’s Toddles who’s so bad.” “Toddles is a little pig,” said I, feeling the repulse was terrible, and yet striving to retreat in good order. “Oh no, he’s not,” said Miss Grace; “that’s just where you’re wrong. Toddles is a dear little chap. I just love Toddles. It’s only his fun.” “Just a girl all over!” I cried, my patience ending in the masculine manner with a snap; “just a girl. Say one thing and mean another; contradict themselves ten times in as many ticks, and then blame us for failing to understand ’em.” “Don’t you get excited, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace; “but get on with your work. Just check those Brighton figures, will you? There, you’ve gone and got Billy Murdoch down forty-seven instead o’ forty-three; and you’ve missed Georgie Brann out altogether.” “I call that cool,” said I, “seeing that you copied ’em out yourself.” “Well, didn’t I tell you to check ’em?” said she. “Now look here, Dimmy, either drop your rotting, and buckle to, or just clear out and leave me on my own.” “I _will_ be good,” said I meekly. But really my position was ludicrous. I had been with her twenty minutes already, yet my high purpose had not been even broached. I had missed several chances. I felt my brazenness to be subsiding. If I didn’t make a start at once, I should get into a funk, and smirch the name of Little Clumpton and become the common mock of Hickory. Yet how could I begin? Any little bravado I might have had at the start was already slain by the sense of the egregious errors I had committed. The only course open was to fall back on my nationality. Was it not lucky that I prided myself on my Anglo-Saxon fibre and directness? Let me say what I meant exactly. Hard slogging, and not the goose game, as became a Briton, don’t you know. “Now then, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace, “the Bristol figures are not on the ceiling; they’re on the table. Just call ’em out while I dot ’em down. Go on.” “Grace, senior,” I read, “not out, one hundred and sixty-eight. Oh, and that reminds me, Grace, that I’ve got something serious to say.” “Of course,” said she; “but you look what you’re doing, or I shall have something serious to say as well.” “Grace,” said I, standing up, “I’ve got something extremely serious to say.”