een hospitality and the care of the
feeble-minded. Lady Blemley replied that your lack of brain-power was
the precise quality which had earned you your invitation, as you were
the only person she could think of who might be idiotic enough to buy
their old car. You know, the one they call 'The Envy of Sisyphus,'
because it goes quite nicely up-hill if you push it."

Lady Blemley's protestations would have had greater effect if she had
not casually suggested to Mavis only that morning that the car in
question would be just the thing for her down at her Devonshire home.

Major Barfield plunged in heavily to effect a diversion.

"How about your carryings-on with the tortoiseshell puss up at the
stables, eh?"

The moment he had said it every one realized the blunder.

"One does not usually discuss these matters in public," said Tobermory
frigidly. "From a slight observation of your ways since you've been in
this house I should imagine you'd find it inconvenient if I were to
shift the conversation on to your own little affairs."

The panic which ensued was not confined to the Major.

"Would you like to go and see if cook has got your dinner ready?"
suggested Lady Blemley hurriedly, affecting to ignore the fact that it
wanted at least two hours to Tobermory's dinner-time.

"Thanks," said Tobermory, "not quite so soon after my tea. I don't
want to die of indigestion."

"Cats have nine lives, you know," said Sir Wilfrid heartily.

"Possibly," answered Tobermory; "but only one liver."

"Adelaide!" said Mrs. Cornett, "do you mean to encourage that cat to go
out and gossip about us in the servants' hall?"

The panic had indeed become general. A narrow ornamental balustrade
ran in front of most of the bedroom windows at the Towers, and it was
recalled with dismay that this had formed a favourite promenade for
Tobermory at all hours, whence he could watch the pigeons--and heaven
knew what else besides. If he intended to become reminiscent in his
present outspoken strain the effect would be something more than
disconcerting. Mrs. Cornett, who spent much time at her toilet table,
and whose complexion was reputed to be of a nomadic though punctual
disposition, looked as ill at ease as the Major. Miss Scrawen, who
wrote fiercely sensuous poetry and led a blameless life, merely
displayed irritation; if you are methodical and virtuous in private you
don't necessarily want every one to know it. Bertie van Tahn, who was