“’Daren’t trust you men with this. I’ll measure it myself, then all of us will get a share. Hands down, Charlie. Oh, yes, I know being a bowler’s beastly thirsty; thank you so much for reminding me. Look alive, Mr. Dimsdale, with those glasses. You’ll find ’em wrapped up in the _Sporting Life_.” “She means _The Woman at Home_, in Annie S. Swan’s grand new serial,” said the little parson, with something that bore a perilous resemblance to a common wink. “Go on, pile it up!” The voice of Miss Grace was more indignant than the hissing of the fizz. “And, Toddles, I saw you. Oh, you naughty little curate. You’d better be careful, Toddles, or I won’t work that sweater for you. Pass that to Cheery. Don’t drink it yet. I’ve got to propose a toast.” When we were all furnished with a means to honour it, our hostess insisted on our standing up along with her, whereon she held the glass aloft, and cried in a voice pregnant with emotion: “Here’s luck to good old Stoddy in the autumn!” We pledged him with great fervour. “I say, you men,” said Grace. “That went well, didn’t it? And I say, isn’t this stuff just prime. My old guv’nor knows a thing or two. And what price the Bishop and the Rural Dean? It’s positive extravagance in my old guv’nor to lavish it on those old jossers. But they look like being left, eh? Next time they’ll get the other sort, and that’ll sour their ‘outlook,’ and their preaching won’t be quite so full of hope. But we’d better finish it now it’s here. Fill up, and we’ll drink another.” The second was: “Here’s luck to good old Archie of that ilk!” This was drunk with acclamation. And the champagne still continuing to hold out, nothing would satisfy the enthusiasm of Miss Grace but that a third should be proposed. It was evidently pretty near her heart, for her colour rose, her eyes sparkled, and her lips began to tremble. “Here’s to dear old Charlie, and may Stoddy have the sense to take him too. And it’s a great big shame he’s not been yet invited!” Charlie having been pushed down into an attitude of repose by main force, we drank this more heartily than ever. And the feeling provoked by the peculiar circumstances of the case was so extreme, that when the gallant little parson broke out into a rousing cheer that did an infinite amount of credit to so small a man, the rest of us supported him in such a stentorian fashion that we attracted the attention of the general public. “Stow that rot!” exclaimed the best bowler in England, whose discomposure was rather painful. “Confound you, Grace, what have you got to play the giddy goat like this for!” “Speech! speech!” cried Miss Grace, hugely delighted at the condition to which she had reduced him. The great bowler grew more embarrassed than ever.