“A boat out of water—­bah!”

Here Tilda was forced to stoop and rub her calves, thus in one moment demonstrating by word and action how much she had to learn before qualifying to shine in Society.

So for the first time the two children quarrelled, and on the first day that invited them to cast away care and be as happy as they listed.  Arthur Miles turned his back upon Tilda, and would not budge from his boat; while Tilda seated herself huffily upon a half-decayed log by the cottage doorway, with ’Dolph beside her, and perused The Lady’s Vade-Mecum.  “A hostess,” she read, “should make her preparations beforehand, and especially avoid appearing distraite during the progress of dinner. . . .  Small blunders in the service should either be ignored, or, at the worst, glided over with a laughing apology. . . .  A trace too much of curacao in the salade d’oranges will be less easily detected and, if detected, more readily pardoned, than the slightest suspicion of gene on the part of the presiding goddess. . .  In England it is customary to offer sherry with the soup, but this should not be dispensed lavishly.  Nursed by a careful butler (or parlour-maid, as the case may be), a single bottle will sherry twelve guests, or, should the glasses be economical, thirteen.  Remember the Grecian proverb, ‘Meden agan,’ or ‘In all things moderation.’” All this Tilda read in a chapter which started with the sentence, “A dinner is a Waterloo which even a Napoleon may lose; and it is with especial care, therefore, almost with trepidation, that we open this chapter.  We will assume that our pupil has sufficiently mastered those that precede it; that she is apparelled for the fray, her frock modest but chic, her coiffure adequate . . .’” This was going too fast.  She harked back and read, under General Observations, that “It is the hall-mark of a lady to be sure of herself under all circumstances,” and that “A lady must practise self-restraint, and never allow herself to exhibit temper.”

“And I’m showin’ temper at this moment!  Oh, ’Dolph”—­she caught the dog close to her in a hug—­“the lot we’ve got to learn!”

’Dolph might have answered that he for his part was practising self-restraint, and practising it hard.  He loved his mistress before all the world, but he had no opinion of books, and would have vastly preferred to be on the beach with Arthur Miles, nosing about the boat or among the common objects of the seashore.

By this time Arthur Miles, too, was feeling lonely and contrite.  On their way back to dinner—­signalled by the blowing of a horn in the farm-place—­he ranged up beside Tilda and said gently, “I’m sorry,” upon which, to her astonishment, Tilda’s eyes filled with tears.  She herself could not have said it; but somehow it was just by differing from her and from other folks that this boy endeared himself.