The little house looked very festive, for the boys had decorated earnestly, the square hall was a bower of greenery, and a gaily coloured Chinese lantern hanging in the middle added a touch of gaiety to the scene.  The supper was the best that Jean and Mrs. M’Cosh could devise, the linen and the glass and silver shone, the flowers were charmingly arranged Jean wore her gay mandarin’s coat, and the guests—­when they arrived—­found themselves in such a warm and welcoming atmosphere that they at once threw off all stiffness and prepared to enjoy the evening.

The entertainment was to begin at eight, and Mrs. M’Cosh and Miss Bathgate took their seats “on the chap,” as the latter put it.  The two Miss Watsons, surprisingly enough, were also present.  They had come along after supper with a small present for Jean, had asked to see her, and stood lingering on the doorstep refusing to come farther, but obviously reluctant to depart.

“Just a little bag, you know, Miss Jean, for you to put your work in if you’re going out to tea, you know.  No, it’s not at all kind.  You’ve been so nice to us.  No, no, we won’t come in; we don’t want to disturb you—­just ran along—­you’ve friends, anyway.  Oh, well, if you put it that way ... we might just sit down for five minutes—­if you’re sure we’re not in the way....”  And still making a duet of protest they sank into seats.

A passage had been arranged, with screens between the door and the window-seat, and much traffic went along that way; the screens bumped and bulged and seemed on the point of collapsing, while smothered giggles were frequent.

At last the curtains were jerked apart, and revealed what seemed to be a funeral pyre.  Branches were piled on the window-seat, and on the top, wrapped in an eiderdown quilt, with a laurel wreath bound round his head, lay David.  Jock, with bare legs and black boots, draped in an old-fashioned circular waterproof belonging to Mrs. M’Cosh, stood with arms folded looking at him, while Mhor, almost denuded of clothing, and supported by Peter (who sat with his back to the audience to show his thorough disapproval of the proceedings), stood at one side.

When the murmured comments of the spectators had ceased, Mhor, looking extraordinarily Roman, held up his hand as if appealing to a raging mob, and said, “Peace, ho!  Let us hear him,” whereupon Jock, breathing heavily in his brother’s face, proceeded to give Antony’s oration over Caesar.  He did it very well, and the Mhor as the Mob supplied appropriate growls at intervals; indeed, so much did Antony’s eloquence inspire Mhor that, when Jock shouted, “Light the pyre!” (a sentence introduced to bring in the charade word), instead of merely pretending with an unlighted taper, Mhor dashed to the fire, lit the taper, and before anyone could stop him thrust it among the dry twigs, which at once began to light and crackle.  Immediately all was confusion.  “Mhor!” shouted Jean, as she sprang towards the stage.  “Gosh, Maggie!” Jock yelled, as he grabbed the burning twigs, but it was “Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay,” who really put out the fire by rolling on it wrapped in an eiderdown quilt.