“Me, dear, dull with you?”

“Yes, Miss Crocodile, dull with a pattern uncle and his friend—­and your admirer.”  He watched her to see how she would take this last word.  Catch her taking it at all.  “I am never dull with you, dear uncle,” said she; “but a third person, however estimable, is a certain restraint, and when that person is not very lively—­” Here the explanation came quietly to an untimely end, like those old tunes that finish in the middle or thereabouts.

“But that is the very thing; what do I ask them for to-night but to thaw Talboys?”

“To thaw Talboys? he! he!”

Lucy seemed so tickled by this expression that the old gentleman was sorry he had used it.

“I mean, they will make him laugh.”  Then, to turn it off, he said hastily, “And don’t forget the fiddle, Lucy.”

“Oh, yes, dear, please let me forget that, and then perhaps they may forget to bring it.”

“Why, you pressed him to bring it; I heard you.”

“Did I?” said Lucy, ruefully.

“I am sure I thought you were mad after a fiddle, you seconded Eve so warmly; so that. was only your extravagant politeness after all.  I am glad you are caught.  I like a fiddle, so there is no harm done.”

Yes, reader, you have hit it.  Eve, who openly quizzed her brother, but secretly adored him, and loved to display all his accomplishments, had egged on Mr. Fountain to ask David to bring his violin next time.  Lucy had shivered internally.  “Now, of all the screeching, whining things that I dislike, a violin!”—­and thus thinking, gushed out, “Oh, pray do, Mr. Dodd,” with a gentle warmth that settled the matter and imposed on all around.

This evening, then, the Dodds came to tea.

They found Lucy alone in the drawing-room, and Eve engaged her directly in sprightly conversation, into which they soon drew David, and, interchanging a secret signal, plied him with a few artful questions, and—­launched him.  But the one sketch I gave of his manner and matter must serve again and again.  Were I to retail to the reader all the droll, the spirited, the exciting things he told his hearers, there would be no room for my own little story; and we are all so egotistical!  Suffice it to say, the living book of travels was inexhaustible; his observation and memory were really marvelous, and his enthusiasm, coupled with his accuracy of detail, had still the power to inthrall his hearers.

“Mr. Dodd,” said Lucy, “now I see why Eastern kings have a story-teller always about them—­a live story-teller.  Would not you have one, Miss Dodd, if you were Queen of Persia?”

“Me?  I’d have a couple—­one to make me laugh; one miserable.”

“One would be enough if his resources were equal to your brother’s.  Pray go on, Mr. Dodd.  It was madness to interrupt you with small talk.”