He was just telling an amusing story of the house in Scotland he had come from, when an explosion happened at the other side of the fireplace.  Loud coughing and choking, mixed with a clatter of teaspoons and china—­and, amid a terrified silence, the fog-horn exclaimed: 

“Surely, Mrs. Gussie, I told you plain enough that sugar in my tea makes me sick.”

I apologized as well as I could, and repaired my want of attention, and then I felt my other guests must claim me, so I whispered to Antony: 

“Do go and talk to Lady Wakely, please.  You are preventing me from doing my duty!  I am listening to you instead.”

“Virtuous Comtesse!”

But he rose, and crossed over to the fat wife of the member for this division, and soon her face beamed with smiles.

I soothed Mr. McCormack, who somehow felt the sugar had been his fault.

Augustus mollified the fog-horn Dodd, and peace was restored all around.

It is a long time between tea and dinner when the days are growing short.  It was only half-past six when every excuse for lingering over the teacups had expired.

What on earth could one do with this ill-assorted company for a whole hour?

Augustus, with a desire to be extremely smart, had commanded dinner at half-past eight.

Mercifully, the decent people and some of the men played bridge, and were soon engaged at one or two tables.  Augustus, who is growing fond of the game, made one of the fourth, thus leaving five of our guests hanging upon my hands.

“Shall I show you your rooms?  Perhaps you would like to rest before dinner,” I said to the ladies, who were good enough to assent, with the exception of Mrs. Dodd, who snorted at the idea of resting.

“Wullie,” she said to Mr. Dodd.  She had evidently picked up the Scotch pronunciation of his name from him, a quiet, red-haired man originally from Glasgow.  He was hovering in the direction of one of the bridge-tables.  “Wullie, don’t let me see you playing that game of cards.  There are letters to be written to Martha and my mother.  Come with me,” she commanded.

Mr. Dodd obeyed, and they retired to the library together.

They are evidently quite at home here, and did not need any attention from me.

Antony Thornhirst was the only other guest unemployed, and he immediately rose and went to write letters in the hall, he said.  He had refused to play bridge on account of this important correspondence.

So at last I got the two women off to their rooms, and was standing irresolutely for a second, glancing over the balustrade after closing the last door, when my kinsman looked up.

“Comtesse,” he called, softly, “won’t you come down and tell me when the post goes?”

I descended the stairs.  He was standing at the bottom by one of the negro figures when I reached the last step.

“Have you not some quiet corner where we might sit and talk of our ancestors?” he asked, with a comic look in his cat’s eyes.  “This place is so draughty, and I am afraid of the bears!  And we should disturb that loving couple in the library and the bridge-players in the drawing-room.  Have you no suggestions for my comfort?  I am one of your guests, too, you know!”