“It sounds quite wrong, then,” cry I, coming down from the stars, and speaking rather sharply.  “I enjoyed it immensely; yes, immensely!”

I say this with an emphasis which is calculated to convince not only everybody else, but even myself.

“Come, now,” cries Bobby, who is farthest off from me, and, to remedy this disadvantage, begins to travel quickly, in a sitting posture, along the rugs toward me, “tell the truth—­gospel truth, mind!—­the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God.  Would you like to be setting off on it over again, to-morrow morning?”

“Of course not,” reply I, angrily; “what a silly question!  Would any one like to begin any thing over again, just the very minute that they had finished it?  You might as well ask me would I like to have dinner over again, and begin upon a fresh plate of soup.”

No one is convinced.

“When I marry,” continues Bobby, lying flat on his back, with his hands clasped under his head (we all laugh)—­“when I marry, no one shall succeed in packing me off to foreign parts, with my young woman.  I shall take her straight home, as if I was not ashamed of her, and we will have a dance, and make a clean sweep of our own cake.”

“Nancy!” cries Tou Tou, innocently, joining in the conversation for the first time, “did any one take him for your grandfather as the Brat said they would?”

“Of course not!” cry I, crossly, making a spiteful lunge, as I speak, at a startle-de-buz, which has lumbered booming into my face.  “Who on earth supposed they would really?”

Tou Tou collapses, with a hazy impression of having been snubbed, and there is a moment’s silence.  A faint, fire-like flush still lingers in the west—­all that is left of the dazzling pageant that the heavens sent to welcome me home.  I am looking toward it—­away from my brothers and sisters—­away from everybody—­across the indistinct garden-beds—­across the misty park, and the dark tree-tops, when a voice suddenly brings me back.

“Nancy, child!” it says, “is not it rather damp for you?  Would you mind putting this on?”

I look up in a hurry, and see Sir Roger stooping over me, with an outspread cloak in his hands.

“Oh, thank you!” cry I, hurriedly, reddening—­I do not quite know why—­ and with that same sort of sneaky feeling, as if the boys were laughing; “I am not one much apt to catch cold—­none of us are—­but I will, if you like.”

So saying, I drew it round my shoulders.  Then he goes, in a minute, without a second’s lingering, back to the gravel-walk, to his wicker-chair, to grave, dry talk, to the friend of his infancy!  I have an uncomfortable feeling that there is a silent and hidden laugh among the family.

“Barbara, my treasure!” says Algy, presently, in a mocking voice, “might I be allowed to offer you our umbrella, and a pair of goloshes to defend you from the evening dews?”