But Miss Grace was far too occupied in attacking her mighty second sandwich, and insisting on her guests adventuring a third, holding that great virtues were resident therein, to heed this brilliant persiflage. Besides, the injustice was too palpable. For I’m certain that had Grace chosen to wear a potato sack, with a ribbon of the Zingari black, red and yellow round the neck of it, she would have made an effect all poetry and sunshine and been a positive delight. The brown holland was quite plain and simple, without one suspicion of a flounce; but its wearer had invested it with all the glamours of a love scene out of Meredith. Hers was a natural genius of beauty for which she was not all responsible. Without the slightest art or consideration, it looked out of her eyes. She must have known all about it, being a girl. Nevertheless she was not in the least uplifted by it, and would have much preferred to play for Middlesex than to be the belle of a London season. When at last the formal luncheon was at an end, and the Earl’s speech had been duly delivered for the benefit of the _Little Clumpton Advertiser_, two persons of light and leading were observed to be bearing down upon our drag. One was the honourable and reverend parent of Miss Grace; the other was the Earl himself. It was good to notice the celerity with which our hostess slipped the empty champagne bottles, bearing their tell-tale labels, back into the hamper at the first approach of these dignitaries. “Mum’s the word, you know,” said she, “if the Guv wants to know what we’ve had to drink. His natural benevolence sometimes leads him to ask lots o’ questions that he oughtn’t to.” As soon as the new comers halted immediately beneath us, Miss Grace greeted them in the hearty fashion that was her wont. “Hullo, father! had a good lunch? Hullo, Dicky! Got your speech off all comfy, or did you break down in the middle, as you usually do?” “A bit nearer the end this time,” said the Earl. “Anyhow,” said Miss Grace, “I hope you didn’t shove in your usual reference to Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch and that crowd. I think everybody’s getting about sick of ’em. What with the Old Man and Ranji and Andrew Lang, they’re getting stale. You take my advice, Dicky, and give ’em a rest. Everybody’ll be so grateful, and as it’ll make your peroration shorter by about ten minutes, you can bet that their gratitude will be pretty genuine.” “Clean out of the ground again,” cried England’s best bowler in great delight. “’Nother six. She keeps on lifting ’em. Charlie Thornton isn’t in it. Dick, you take my advice, and clear out o’ this while you’re well.” “What have I done to deserve this?” said the poor Earl appealingly.