“Salmon paste and cress,” replied Mrs. Seymour mildly.

“I bet any money its salmon and shrimp paste,” declared Sandy.  “And it’s the vulgar shrimp which appeals.”

He helped himself unostentatiously to another sandwich.

“Your eighth,” commented Nan.

“It’s the shrimpness of them,” he murmured plaintively.  “I can’t help it.”

“Well, draw the line somewhere,” she returned.  “If we’re going to play duets after tea and you continue to absorb sandwiches at your present rate of consumption, you’ll soon be incapable of detecting the inherent difference between a quaver and a semibreve.”

“Then I shall count,” said Sandy.

“No.”

“Aloud,” he added firmly.

“Sandy, you’re a beast!”

“Not a bit.  I believe I could compose a symphonic poem under the influence of salmon and shrimp sandwiches—­if I had enough of them.”

“You’ve had enough,” retorted Nan promptly.  “So come along and begin.”

She swept him away to the big music-room, where a polished floor and an absence of draperies offered no hindrance to the tones of the beautiful Bluethner piano.  Some of the party drifted in from the terrace outside as Sandy’s long, boyish fingers began to move capably over the keys, extemporising delightfully.

“If he were only a little older,” whispered Kitty to Lord St. John.

“Inveterate match-maker!” he whispered back.

Sandy pulled Nan down on to the music seat beside him.

“The Shrimp Symphony in A flat minor, arranged for four hands,” he announced.  “Come on, Nan.  Time, seven-four—­”

“Sandy, don’t be ridiculous!”

“Why not seven-four?”—­innocently.  “You have five-four.  Come along. One, two, three, four, five, six, sev’n; one, two, three, four, five—­”

And the next moment the two were improvising a farcical duet that in its way was a masterpiece of ingenious musicianship.  Thence they passed on to more serious music until finally Sandy was persuaded to produce his violin—­he had two, one of which, as he was wont to remark, “lodged” at Mallow.  With the help of Penelope and Ralph Fenton, the afternoon was whiled away until a low-toned gong, reverberating through the house was a warning that it was time to dress for dinner, brought the impromptu concert to an abrupt end.

CHAPTER IX

A SKIRMISH WITH DEATH

It was a soft, misty day when Trenby called to drive Nan over to the Trevithick Kennels—­one of those veiled mornings which break about noon into a glory of blue sky and golden sunlight.

As she stepped into the waiting car, Roger stopped her abruptly.

“Go back and put on something thicker,” he commanded.  “It’ll be chilly driving in this mist.”

“But it’s going to be hot later on,” protested Nan.