In the abbot’s kitchen we get into the huge hooded fireplace—­seven of us—­and there is room for more.  We look up the chimney and see the glossy green ivy leaves overhead, and the blue sky shining beyond them.  We toss a pebble down into the subterranean passage where, they say, the monks were wont to pass out after provisions during a time of siege; which must have been somewhat demoralizing to the besiegers, whoever they were.  I stoop to pick up something in the grass of the kitchen floor, which has a glitter of gold upon it, and my face flushes with eager anticipation as I seize it.

“What have you found?” asks Amy.

“A relic of the monks?” asks Bunker.

“It’s a champagne cork,” I am forced to reply.  “The truth is, Netley Abbey is a show, like Niagara Falls and Bunker Hill Monument.  Of course crowds of tourists come here, and of course they pop champagne and ginger beer, and cut their confounded initials in the venerable stones.”

“Yes,” says Bunker, “I saw ‘W.S.’ cut in the wall at the top of the turret stairs.  Saves you the trouble, you know.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing, thank you.”

Nevertheless, it was curious to see some nobody’s name cut at full length in the stone, with the date underneath—­1770.

When we return to the hotel the night porter reports that he has not found my umbrella.  So I must go off without it.  Our train leaves at ten minutes past five this afternoon, and we shall be in London early in the evening.  It is now four o’clock:  we have ordered dinner for this hour, and so we sit down to our soup.

“Please give us our dinner without any delay now,” I say to the pompous head-waiter, “for we must take the train at ten minutes past five.”

The man bows stiffly and retires.  We finish the soup, and wait.  When we get tired of waiting we call the head-waiter to us:  “Are you hastening our dinner?”

“Fish directly, sir,” he answers, and walks solemnly away.  We begin to grow fidgety.  Fifteen minutes since the soup, and no fish yet.  Bunker swears he’ll blow the head-waiter up in another minute.  Just as he is quite ready for this explosion the fish arrives.  All hail!  I lay it open.

“Why, it’s not done!” I cry in consternation.  “There, there!  Take it away, and bring the meat.”

With an air of grave offence the man bears it solemnly out.  Then we wait again.  And wait.  And wait.

“Good gracious!” cries Bunker, “here’s half an hour gone, and we’ve had nothing but soup!  I really must blow this fellow up.”

“Stop! there it comes.”

Enter the waiter with great dignity, and solemnly deposits before us—­the fish again!

He has had it recooked.  We attack it hurriedly, and bid the waiter for Goodness’ sake bring the rest of the dinner instantly, or we must leave it.

“And I’m about half starved,” growls Bunker.

More waiting.  Five minutes pass.  Ten.