“There’s really no hurry, Toddles, you know,” said Archie, while that ornament of the Church sponged the blood from his teeth. “It’s only ten minutes since the bell went, and if there’s one thing the Guv does thoroughly enjoy, it is for a curate to come between him and his dinner. And it would make us all so sorrowful if you were to forfeit his high opinion, for we all feel that you will never be able to impose on anybody else. Besides, you won’t be in time to say the grace, you bloody little ruffian!” Despite this prediction, however, the Rector continued to be courtesy itself. No doubt this was his habit, as he certainly possessed some magnetic quality that caused his high-spirited family to regard him with affectionate awe. Miss Grace, herself the highest spirited of them all, might be said to worship him. In the words of Archie, “The Guv’nor might be the inventor of cricket,” such was the estimation in which his daughter held him. As for that adorable person, she was apparently as much at home in the dining-room as in the tented field. She could play the hostess as easily as she could play the game. She indicated the course of the talk with a brisk tact that would have commended itself to the professional hostesses of Carlton House Terrace, and in her _décolleté_ white silk looked an angel, if a somewhat highly developed one. Her bowling arm was particularly noticeable, but that didn’t bother her a bit. It might be that Miss Grace’s amiability enabled us to dispense with our war-paint, but Miss Grace’s sex absolutely forbade her to dispense with hers. “Any of you men thought of the Sillenger yet?” she began with the soup. “Fancy ‘Kensit’ myself rather.” “I’ve a leaning towards ‘Helbeck of Bannisdale,’” said the little curate. “Naturally,” Miss Grace said. “But he wasn’t even placed in the Derby. You take my tip, Toddles, he’s a rotter.” “Laura,” said the Rector, “I am very sorry to hear you employ such an amount of slang. In my opinion it is a most offensive habit, particularly in women.” “Well, you see, Father,” said his ingenuous daughter, “it’s a short way of saying a lot. Besides, the boys use it.” “Boys are barbarians,” said her parent. “Oh, they are,” said Miss Grace. “Well, I think barbarians aren’t half bad. Anyhow, I like what they like, so I s’pose I’m a bit of a barbarian too.” “Jennings,” said Archie, “serve the claret cup, quick! Grace, we’re going to drink your thundering good health.” We drank it with rare cordiality. The poor, dear Optimist who was seated at my side had such an agitated hand that a portion of the contents of his glass overflowed upon the cloth. “You’ve spilt your luck,” said Toddles, in a melancholy undertone.