small round cakes
were piled, crisp and appetizing, on a cracked Sevres dish; early
strawberries glowed red among their own leaves. Talk of the marengo
trick! It was nothing to this. The miracle had been duly performed;
but--there were only five cups.

Mrs. Fox-Porston and her daughters, Miss Carrie Hood Woodall and her
chaperone, took the hint and their leave; and the companions of the
future were left alone together to talk over their plans.

"Lock the gate, Felicite," said I. "Do make haste!" And she did. Dear
Felicite!

II

A CHAPTER OF PLANS

So it is that Fate calmly arranges our lives in spite of us. Although no
details of the coming trip were settled during what remained of our new
employers' visit, that was their fault and the fault of a singularly
premature sunset, rather than mine, or even Terry's; and we both felt
that it came to the same thing. We were in honour bound to "personally
conduct" Mrs. Kidder, Miss Beechy Kidder, and Miss Destrey towards
whatever point of the compass a guiding finger of theirs should signify.

It has always been my motto to take Father Time by the fore-lock, for
fear he should cut it off, or get away, or play some other trick upon
me, which the cantankerous old chap (no parent of mine!) is fond
of doing. Therefore, if I could, I would have had terms, destination,
day and hour of starting definitely arranged before that
miraculously-produced tea of Felicite's had turned to tannin. But man
may not walk through a solid wall, or strive against such conversational
gifts as those of Mrs. Kidder.

She could and would keep to anything except the point. That, whatever
its nature, she avoided as she would an indelicacy.

"Well, now, Mrs. Kidder," I began, "if you really want us to organize
this tour, don't you think we'd better discuss--"

"Of _course_ we want you to!" she broke in. "We all think it's just
awfully good of you to bother with us when you must have so many friends
who want you to take them--English people in your own set. By the way,
do you know the Duchess of Carborough?"

"I know very few duchesses or other Americans," I replied. Whereupon
Miss Kidder's imp laughed, though her mother remained grave, and even
looked mildly disappointed.

"That's a funny way of putting it," said Beechy. "One would think it was
quite an American habit, being a Duchess."

"So it is, isn't it?" I asked. "The only reason we needn't fear its
growing like the Yellow Peril is