" mutters Terence,
_sotto voce_, regarding Kit sideways, who returns his rapturous glance
with one full of ineffable disdain.

"I hope Michael won't object," says Miss Penelope, nervously. Michael is
the gardener, and they are all, without exception, afraid of him.

"Nonsense, my dear! why should he?" says Miss Priscilla. "It isn't
because he has been here for years that he is to forbid us the use of
our own grounds, and of late I consider there is great fault to be found
with him. Long service should not generate neglect, and of late there
has not been a good lettuce or a respectable dish of asparagus in the
garden."

"There wasn't even any thyme last week," says Kit, who maintains an
undying feud with Michael. "He had to get some fresh plants from
Cahirmore."

"Time was made for slaves," says Terence, meditatively. "_You_ aren't a
slave, are you?"

"I should hope not," says Kit, icily.

"Then you can't want time: so don't worry that poor old man in the
garden about it. He hasn't a scythe, or a bald head, or a dismal
forelock: so he _can't_ know anything about it."

"You are so clever," says the younger Miss Beresford, with unmixed
scorn, "that I wonder something dreadful doesn't happen to you."

"So do I," says Terence.

"Well, auntie, and whom shall we ask to meet these men of war?" says
Kit, ignoring him,--publicly, to his great delight.

"I suppose Madam O'Connor and all her party, and the Frenches, and Lord
Rossmoyne,--who I hear is still in the country,--and----Penelope, my
dear, will you sit down and write the invitations now for Friday next,
as I must get ready to go to the coast-guard station? That girl of
Mitson's is ill, and wants to see me."

Monica rising at this moment to leave the room, Kit follows her.

"It is really _too_ amazing," she says, when they find themselves in the
hall. "To think of their blossoming into a real live party! I feel quite
overcome."

"So do I," says Monica, laughing.

"There is only one drawback to it," says Kit, softly: "I am _so_ sorry
Brian can't be asked."

Monica flushes furiously, and swerves away from her somewhat
impatiently; but reply she makes none.

"There are cobwebs in my brain," says Kit, raising her hands languidly
to her head, with the oppressed air of one who is bravely struggling
with a bad headache. "I think I shall go for a walk to Biddy Daly's to
try and rout them. I promised her old mother a pudding the last day I
was there, and to-day