“See, daughter Alice, you will learn one day to build up a jelly as well as to eat it,” said Sir Philip good-humouredly, whereat the small lady pouted a little and said—­

“Bet lets me make shapes of the dough, but I won’t stir the pans and get to look like a turkey-cock.”

“Ah, ha! and you have always done what you liked, my little madam?”

“Of course, sir! and so I shall,” she answered, drawing up her pretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.

“Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons,” murmured Mrs. Woodford in consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking Peregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.

“The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they call it,” was the reply, “but as to the result!  Pah!  I know not how we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle’s black, been an excellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely regaled, and our maitre d’hotel would discourse on ragouts and entremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences.”

“So it is to a Frenchman,” growled Sir Philip.  “French and Frenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your father say to your science, my young spark?”

The gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been caught at Paris.  Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about the Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.

“A stately and sightly dame is she, madam,” Peregrine answered, “towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in naught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor.”

“The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country,” said Sir Philip severely.

Peregrine’s face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir Philip into saying, “Speak up, sir! what d’ye mean?  We don’t understand French grins here.”

“Nor does he, nor French courtesies either,” said Peregrine.

“So much the better!” exclaimed the baronet.

Here the little clear voice broke in, “O Mr. Oakshott, if I had but known you were coming, you might have brought me a French doll in the latest fashion.”

“I should have been most happy, madam,” returned Peregrine; “but unfortunately I am six months from Paris, and besides, his honour might object lest a French doll should contaminate the Dutch puppets.”

“But oh, sir, is it true that French dolls have real hair that will curl?”

“Don’t be foolish,” muttered Charles impatiently; and she drew up her head and made an indescribably droll moue of disgust at him.

Supper ended, the party broke up into old and young, the two elder gentlemen sadly discussing politics over their tall glasses of wine, the matrons talking over the wedding and Lady Archfield’s stay in London at the parlour fire, and the young folk in a window, waiting for the fiddler and a few more of the young people who were to join them in the dance.