Vernon recovered in time to accept the absurdities heaped on him.

“Climbing peaks won’t compare with hunting a wriggler,” said he.

His allusion to the incessant pursuit of young Crossjay to pin him to lessons was appreciated.

Clara felt the thread of the look he cast from herself to Colonel De Craye.  She was helpless, if he chose to misjudge her.  Colonel De Craye did not!

Crossjay had the misfortune to enter the drawing-room while Mrs. Mountstuart was compassionating Vernon for his ducking in pursuit of the wriggler; which De Craye likened to “going through the river after his eel:”  and immediately there was a cross-questioning of the boy between De Craye and Willoughby on the subject of his latest truancy, each gentleman trying to run him down in a palpable fib.  They were succeeding brilliantly when Vernon put a stop to it by marching him off to hard labour.  Mrs. Mountstuart was led away to inspect the beautiful porcelain service, the present of Lady Busshe.  “Porcelain again!” she said to Willoughby, and would have signalled to the “dainty rogue” to come with them, had not Clara been leaning over to Laetitia, talking to her in an attitude too graceful to be disturbed.  She called his attention to it, slightly wondering at his impatience.  She departed to meet an afternoon train on the chance that it would land the professor.  “But tell Dr. Middleton,” said she, “I fear I shall have no one worthy of him!  And,” she added to Willoughby, as she walked out to her carriage, “I shall expect you to do the great-gunnery talk at table.”

“Miss Dale keeps it up with him best,” said Willoughby.

“She does everything best!  But my dinner-table is involved, and I cannot count on a young woman to talk across it.  I would hire a lion of a menagerie, if one were handy, rather than have a famous scholar at my table, unsupported by another famous scholar.  Doctor Middleton would ride down a duke when the wine is in him.  He will terrify my poor flock.  The truth is, we can’t leaven him:  I foresee undigested lumps of conversation, unless you devote yourself.”

“I will devote myself,” said Willoughby.

“I can calculate on Colonel De Craye and our porcelain beauty for any quantity of sparkles, if you promise that.  They play well together.  You are not to be one of the gods to-night, but a kind of Jupiter’s cup-bearer;—­Juno’s, if you like; and Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer, and all your admirers shall know subsequently what you have done.  You see my alarm.  I certainly did not rank Professor Crooklyn among the possibly faithless, or I never would have ventured on Doctor Middleton at my table.  My dinner-parties have hitherto been all successes.  Naturally I feel the greater anxiety about this one.  For a single failure is all the more conspicuous.  The exception is everlastingly cited!  It is not so much what people say, but my own sentiments.  I hate to fail.  However, if you are true, we may do.”