Sensation, as they say in the reports.

“But he’ll be cooked,” cried Phyllis, open-eyed.

“No, he won’t.  Nor will our dinner.  Mrs. Beale always lets the kitchen fire out during the afternoon.  And how she’s going to light it with that——­”

There was a pause while one might count three.  It was plain that the speaker was struggling with himself.

“—­that cat,” he concluded safely, “up the chimney?  It’s a cold dinner we’ll get to-night, if that cat doesn’t come down.”

The professor’s face fell.  I had remarked on the occasion when I had lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table.  Cold impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste.

We went to the kitchen in a body.  Mrs. Beale was standing in front of the empty grate, making seductive cat-noises up the chimney.

“What’s all this, Mrs. Beale?” said Ukridge.

“He won’t come down, sir, not while he thinks Bob’s about.  And how I’m to cook dinner for five with him up the chimney I don’t see, sir.”

“Prod at him with a broom handle, Mrs. Beale,” said Ukridge.

“Oh, don’t hurt poor Edwin,” said Mrs. Ukridge.

“I ’ave tried that, sir, but I can’t reach him, and I’m only bin and drove ’im further up.  What must be,” added Mrs. Beale philosophically, “must be.  He may come down of his own accord in the night.  Bein’ ’ungry.”

“Then what we must do,” said Ukridge in a jovial manner, which to me at least seemed out of place, “is to have a regular, jolly picnic-dinner, what?  Whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that.”

“A regular, jolly picnic-dinner,” repeated the professor gloomily.  I could read what was passing in his mind,—­remorse for having come at all, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it.

“That will be splendid,” said Phyllis.

“Er, I think, my dear sir,” said her father, “it would be hardly fair for us to give any further trouble to Mrs. Ukridge and yourself.  If you will allow me, therefore, I will——­”

Ukridge became gushingly hospitable.  He refused to think of allowing his guests to go empty away.  He would be able to whack up something, he said.  There was quite a good deal of the ham left.  He was sure.  He appealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardines and part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese.

“And after all,” he said, speaking for the whole company in the generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, “what more do we want in weather like this?  A nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much better for us than a lot of hot things.”