ng, and meeting different grades of
thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was the
word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England,
our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was
very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she
did so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,'
and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss
Lavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.' Just imagine! 'Tut! The early
Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said:
'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I
will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' It was horrible
speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did
not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply.
But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep
voice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' The
woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in
by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first
place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up
and said: 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those
two nice men. Come, too.' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable
invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would
broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University
men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking
to commercial travellers."

"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.

"Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, every one, and finally said:
'I shall go alone.' She went. At the end of five minutes she returned
unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience."

"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.

"No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to
tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."

"Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to
know."

Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for
herself.

"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not
mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?"

The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.
Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by