William came out of his bedroom and looked over the balusters.

“Yes, mother,” he said, with that wondering innocence of voice and look which he had brought to a fine art, and which proved one of his greatest assets in times of stress and strain.

“What are you doing?”

“Jus’ readin’ quietly in my room, mother.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t disturb him, then,” said William’s sister.

“It’s those silly books you read, Emma.  You’re always imagining things.  If you’d read the ones I recommend, instead of the foolish ones you will get hold of——­”

William’s mother was safely mounted on one of her favourite hobby-horses.  William withdrew to his room and carefully concealed the cream blanc-mange beneath his bed.  He then waited till he heard the guests arrive and exchange greetings in the hall.  William, listening with his door open, carefully committed to memory the voice and manner of his sister’s greeting to her friends.  That would come in useful later on, probably.  No weapon of offence against the world in general and his own family in particular, was to be despised.  He held a rehearsal in his room when the guests were all safely assembled in the drawing-room.

“Oh, how are you, Mrs. Green?” he said in a high falsetto, meant to represent the feminine voice.  “And how’s the darling baby? Such a duck!  I’m dying to see him again!  Oh, Delia, darling!  There you are! So glad you could come!  What a perfect darling of a dress, my dear.  I know whose heart you’ll break in that!  Oh, Mr. Thompson!”—­here William languished, bridled and ogled in a fashion seen nowhere on earth except in his imitations of his sister when engaged in conversation with one of the male sex.  If reproduced at the right moment, it was guaranteed to drive her to frenzy, “I’m so glad to see you.  Yes, of course I really am!  I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t!”

The drawing-room door opened and a chatter of conversation and a rustling of dresses arose from the hall.  Oh, crumbs!  They were going in to supper.  Yes, the dining-room door closed; the coast was clear.  William took out the rather battered-looking delicacy from under the bed and considered it thoughtfully.  The dish was big and awkwardly shaped.  He must find something that would go under his coat better than that.  He couldn’t march through the hall and out of the front door, bearing a cream blanc-mange, naked and unashamed.  And the back door through the kitchen was impossible.  With infinite care but little success as far as the shape of the blanc-mange was concerned, he removed it from its dish on to his soap-dish.  He forgot, in the excitement of the moment, to remove the soap, but, after all, it was only a small piece.  The soap-dish was decidedly too small for it, but, clasped to William’s bosom inside his coat, it could be partly supported by his arm outside.  He descended the stairs cautiously.  He tip-toed lightly past the dining-room door (which was slightly ajar), from which came the shrill, noisy, meaningless, conversation of the grown-ups.  He was just about to open the front door when there came the sound of a key turning in the lock.