vited them to cast away care and be as happy as they listed.
Arthur Miles turned his back upon Tilda, and would not budge from his
boat; while Tilda seated herself huffily upon a half-decayed log by the
cottage doorway, with 'Dolph beside her, and perused _The Lady's
Vade-Mecum_. "A hostess," she read, "should make her preparations
beforehand, and especially avoid appearing _distraite_ during the
progress of dinner. . . . Small blunders in the service should either be
ignored, or, at the worst, glided over with a laughing apology. . . .
A trace too much of curacao in the _salade d'oranges_ will be less
easily detected and, if detected, more readily pardoned, than the
slightest suspicion of _gene_ on the part of the presiding goddess. . .
In England it is customary to offer sherry with the soup, but this
should not be dispensed lavishly. Nursed by a careful butler
(or parlour-maid, as the case may be), a single bottle will sherry
twelve guests, or, should the glasses be economical, thirteen. Remember
the Grecian proverb, 'Meden agan,' or 'In all things moderation.'"
All this Tilda read in a chapter which started with the sentence,
"A dinner is a Waterloo which even a Napoleon may lose; and it is with
especial care, therefore, almost with trepidation, that we open this
chapter. We will assume that our pupil has sufficiently mastered those
that precede it; that she is apparelled for the fray, her frock modest
but _chic_, her _coiffure_ adequate . . .'" This was going too fast.
She harked back and read, under _General Observations_, that "It is the
hall-mark of a lady to be sure of herself under all circumstances," and
that "A lady must practise self-restraint, and never allow herself to
exhibit temper."

"And I'm showin' temper at this moment! Oh, 'Dolph"--she caught the dog
close to her in a hug--"the lot we've got to learn!"

'Dolph might have answered that he for his part was practising
self-restraint, and practising it hard. He loved his mistress before
all the world, but he had no opinion of books, and would have vastly
preferred to be on the beach with Arthur Miles, nosing about the boat or
among the common objects of the seashore.

By this time Arthur Miles, too, was feeling lonely and contrite.
On their way back to dinner--signalled by the blowing of a horn in the
farm-place--he ranged up beside Tilda and said gently, "I'm sorry," upon
which, to her astonishment, Tilda's eyes filled with tears. She hersel