“What, old man Bilberry,” cried Harold Jupp.  “Isn’t he balmy?”

“Balmy, sir?” Mr. Todd asked in surprise.  “He takes the air every morning, if that is what you mean.”  He turned again to Lady Splay.  “He keeps the most admirable table.  You must know him, Lady Splay.  I will see to it.”

“Thank you,” said Millie Splay humbly.

“Ah, muffins!” said Mr. Albany Todd with glistening eyes.  He ate one and took another.  “These are really as good as the muffins I ate at a wonderful week-end party a fortnight ago.”

The chatter of the others ceased.  The great conversationalist, it seemed, was off.  Miranda, Dennis, Harold Jupp, Sir Chichester, even Joan looked up with expectation.

“Yes,” said Lady Splay, encouraging him.  She looked around at her guests.  “Now you shall see,” she seemed to say.

“How we laughed!  What sprightly talk!  The fine flavour of that party is quite incommunicable.  Just dear old friends, you see, intimate, congenial friends.”

Mr. Albany Todd stopped.  It appeared that he needed a question to be put to him.  Lady Splay dutifully put it.

“And where did this party take place, Mr. Albany Todd?”

Mr. Albany Todd smiled and dusted the crumbs from his knees.

“At the Earl of Wimborough’s little place in the north.  Do you know the Earl of Wimborough?  No?  You must, dear lady!  I will see to it.”

“Thank you,” said Millie Splay.

Harold Jupp looked eagerly at the personage, and said, “I hope Wimborough won’t go jumping this winter.”

“Jumping!” cried Mr. Albany Todd turning indignantly.  “I should think not indeed!  Jumping!  Why, he is seventy-three!”

He was utterly scandalised that any one should attribute the possibility of such wayward behaviour to the venerable Earl.  In his agitation he ate another muffin.  After all, if the nobleman did go jumping in the winter why should this young and horsey man presume to criticise him.

“Harold Jupp was drawing a distinction between flat racing and steeple-chasing, Mr. Albany Todd,” Sir Chichester suavely explained.

“Oh, I see.”  Mr. Albany Todd was appeased.  He turned a condescending face upon Joan Whitworth.

“And what are you reading, Miss Whitworth?”

“What ho!” interposed Harold Jupp.

Joan shot at him a withering glance.

“It wouldn’t interest you.”  She smiled on Mr. Albany Todd.  “It’s Browning.”

“Well, that’s just where you are wrong,” returned Jupp.  “Browning’s the only poet I can stick.  There’s a ripping thing of his I learnt at school.”

     “’I sprang to the saddle and Joris and he,
       I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three.’”

“Oh,” exclaimed Miranda eagerly, “a horse race!”

“Nothing of the sort, Miranda.  I am thoroughly ashamed of you,” said Harold in reproof.  “It’s ’How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.’”