nnet,'" Sir
Penthony breaks in, with growing excitement.

"No, she didn't," says Mr. Potts, growing excited too. "So she started
for my uncle's,--the cook, I mean,--and as soon as the mirror was put
up began bidding away for it like a steam-engine. And presently some
one in a pink bonnet began bidding too, and there they were bidding
away against each other, the cook not knowing the bonnet, and my mother
not being able to see the cook, she was so hemmed in by the crowd,
until presently it was knocked down to my mother,--who is a sort of
person who would die rather than give in,--and, would you believe it?"
winds up Mr. Potts, nearly choking with delight over the misfortunes of
his maternal relative, "she had given exactly five pounds more for that
mirror than she need have done!"

They all laugh, Sir Penthony and Luttrell with a very suspicious mirth.

"Poor Mrs. Potts!" says Molly.

"Oh, _she_ didn't mind. When she had relieved herself by blowing
up the cook she laughed more than any of us. But it was a long time
before the 'governor' could be brought to see the joke. You know he
paid for it," says Plantagenet, naively.

"Moral: never buy a new bonnet," says Sir Penthony.

"Or keep an affectionate cook," says Luttrell.

"Or go to an auction," says Philip. "It is a very instructive tale: it
is all moral."

"The reason I so much admire it. I know no one such an adept at
pointing a moral and adorning a tale as our Plantagenet."

Mr. Potts smiles superior.

"I think the adornment rested with you and Luttrell," he says, with
cutting sarcasm, answering Sir Penthony.

"Potts, you aren't half a one. Tell us another. Your splendid resources
can't be yet exhausted," says Philip.

"Yes, do, Potts, and wake me when you come to the point," seconds Sir
Penthony, warmly, sinking into an arm-chair and gracefully disposing an
antimacassar over his head.

"A capital idea," murmurs Luttrell. "It will give us all a hint when we
are expected to laugh."

"Oh, you can chaff as you like," exclaims Mr. Potts, much aggrieved;
"but I wonder, if _I_ went to sleep in an arm-chair, which of
_you_ would carry on the conversation?"

"Not one of them," declares Cecil, with conviction: "we should all die
of mere inanition were it not for you."

"I really think they're all jealous of me," goes on Plantagenet,
greatly fortified. "I consider myself by far the most interesting of
them all, and the most--er----"

"Say it, Potts; don't