never ready at all.  She was being talked to by a round-faced, fluffy-haired lady in a green dress and pince-nez, who took an interest in the development of her deplorably uncultured young mind—­a Miss Barnett, who was painting pictures to illustrate a book to be called “Venice, Her Spirit.”  The great hope for young Rhoda, both Miss Barnett and Mr. Vyvian felt, was to widen the gulf between her and her unspeakable mother.  They, who quarrelled about everything else, were united in this enterprise.  The method adopted was to snub Mrs. Johnson whenever she spoke.  That was no doubt why, as Peggy had told Peter, Rhoda blushed on those frequent occasions.

The party was completed by a very young curate, and an elderly spinster with mittens and many ailments, the symptoms of which she lucidly specified in a refined undertone to any lady who would listen; with gentlemen, however, she was most discreet, except with the curate, who complained that his cloth was no protection.  Finally Hilary came in and took the head of the table, and Peggy and the children took the other end.  Peter found himself between Mrs. Johnson and Miss Barnett, and opposite Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda.

Mrs. Johnson began to be nice to him at once, in her cheery way.

“Know Venice?” and when Peter said, “Not yet,” she told him, “Ah, you’ll like it, I know.  So pleasant as it is.  Particlerly for young people.  It gives me rheumatics, so much damp about.  But my gel Rhoder is that fond of it.  Spends all her spare time—­not as she’s got much, poor gel—­in the gall’ries and that.  Art, you know.  She goes in for it, Rhoder does.  I don’t, now.  I’m a stupid old thing, as they’ll all tell you.”  She nodded cheerfully and inclusively at Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda and Miss Barnett.  They did not notice.  Vyvian, toying disgustedly with his burnt minestra, was saying in his contemptuous voice, “Of course, if you like that, you may as well like the Frari monuments at once and have done.”

Rhoda was crimson; she had made another mistake.  Miss Barnett, who disputed the office of mentor with Vyvian, whom she jealously disliked, broke in, in her cheery chirp, “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Vyvian.  I consider it a very fine example of Carpaccio’s later style; I think you will find that some good critics are with me.”  She addressed Peter, ignoring the intervening solidity of Mrs. Johnson.  “Do you support me, Mr. Margerison?”

“I’ve not seen it yet,” Peter said rather timidly.  “It sounds very nice.”

Miss Barnett gave him a rather contemptuous look through her pince-nez and turned to Hilary.

“Lor!” whispered Mrs. Johnson to Peter.  “They do get so excited about pictures.  Just like that they go on all day, squabblin’ and peckin’ each other.  Always at Rhoder they are too, tellin’ her she must think this and mustn’t think that, till the poor gel don’t know if she’s on her head or her heels.  She don’t like me to interfere, or it’s