“You didn’t, Ralph!  I am quite sure you didn’t!  I’m not going to believe anything so absurd.”  Nevertheless she paused on her way to the door for further details.

“All right.  I didn’t,” said Ralph complacently.  “And Sir Giles didn’t get drunk as a lord and tumble about the ballroom, and yell comic—­awfully comic—­songs, till someone hauled him off to the refreshment-room and filled him up with whiskey till he could sing no more!”

“Oh, Ralph!  Not really!  How utterly beastly!  Was Lady Carfax there?”

“She was at first, but she cleared out.  I don’t know where she went to.”

“Oh, poor Lady Carfax!  How horrid for her!  Ralph, I—­I could kick that man!”

“So could I,” said Ralph heartily, “if someone would kindly hold him for me.  He is a drunken blackguard, and if he doesn’t end in an asylum, I shall never express a medical opinion again.”

“P’r’aps he’ll die of apoplexy first,” said Dot vindictively.

“Whatever he dies of,” said Ralph, “I shall attend his funeral with the greatest pleasure.  Hadn’t you better go and make that cake?  I shall want it by tea-time.”

“You are a pig!” the girl declared, pushing the sunny hair back from her gay young face.  “Isn’t Bertie late this morning?  Perhaps he isn’t coming.  Dad won’t be able to take him anyhow, for old Squinny is bad again and sent for him in a hurry.”

“That wretched old humbug!  That means more beef-tea, not approaching dissolution.  Old Squinny will never dissolve in the ordinary way.”

“Well, I must go.”  Dot reached the door and began to swing it to and fro, gathering impetus for departure.  “By the way, was Bertie there?” she asked.

“Bertie who?”

“Bertie Errol, of course.  Who else?”

“There are plenty of Berties in the world,” remarked Ralph, helping himself again to bread and honey.  “No, Bertram Errol was not present.  But Napoleon Errol was.  It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer on to me. Nota bene!  Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future.  He has the craft of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent.  I believe he is a Red Indian, myself.”

“Oh, Ralph, he isn’t!  He is as white as you are.”

“He isn’t white at all,” Ralph declared, “outside or in.  Outside he is the colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink.  You will never get that cake made if you don’t go.”

“Oh, bother!” Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, “Why, Bertie, so here you are!  We were just talking of you.”

A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.

“Hullo!” he said, halting at the doorway.  “Awfully nice of you!  What were you saying, I wonder?  Hullo, Ralph!  Only just down, you lazy beggar?  Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with the direct eyes of good-fellowship.  His eyes were clear and honest as a child’s.