with
fright.

The old ladies stiffen in their chairs, but never a word say they; they
are too much overcome for ordinary rebuke. Kit, however, to whom any
excitement is welcome, betrays an open admiration for the bold Terence
and waits hopefully for what may come next.

It is even worse than might be expected. Terence, either unaware or
careless of the sensation he has produced, closes one eye to examine
with pleased scrutiny the gaudy fly he has just completed, after which
he says, with a suggestion of jocoseness that under the circumstances is
perfectly abominable,--

"I say, Aunt Priscilla, as Cobbett has been sent to look after old
Desmond in particular, don't you think, if you entertain him, it will be
to old Desmond, and _not_ Her Majesty, you will be paying attention,
after all?"

He stops and smiles blandly. If, indeed, I said a _grin_ illuminates his
countenance, I might be nearer the truth. It is apparent to everybody
that he is _jesting_ on this sacred subject.

"Terry!" says Monica, with a little gasp.

"Well?" says Mr. Beresford, amiably, purposely misunderstanding the
horror of her tone, and looking up as though thirsting for the remainder
of her speech. It doesn't come. Monica, fearful of provoking him to
further monstrosities, forbears from answer of any kind.

"Terence," says Miss Priscilla, with slow solemnity, "I have frequently
told you that we object to hearing that detested name mentioned in our
presence. It offends both your aunt Penelope and me. I must again beg
that for the future we may be spared a repetition of it."

"When I was going to give Tim Daly a sound thrashing for his
impertinence yesterday, you stopped me and bade me forgive my enemies,"
says Terence, calmly, questioningly. "Why don't you forgive old
Desmond?"

"Because----That is quite another thing altogether. I mean----I----it
seems to me----No matter _what_ it seems now; we can't discuss it," says
Miss Priscilla, making a desperate effort to catch the horns of her
dilemma and to escape from it.

"Let us discuss our party instead," says Kit, cheerfully, who is really
of the greatest use at times. "When is it to be, Aunt Pris?"

"Next week, I suppose," says Miss Penelope, promptly, seeing that Miss
Priscilla is still too agitated to reply. "And I think it would be
rather nice to have tea in the orchard."

"Oh! how quite too lovely!" says Kit, clasping her hands.

"Quite too utterly consummately, preciously intense?