Like the trained warrior who is ready at all hours for the trumpet to arms, Dr. Middleton waked up for judicial allocution in a trice.

“A rough truth, madam, I should define to be that description of truth which is not imparted to mankind without a powerful impregnation of the roughness of the teller.”

“It is a rough truth, ma’am, that the world is composed of fools, and that the exceptions are knaves,” Professor Crooklyn furnished that example avoided by the Rev. Doctor.

“Not to precipitate myself into the jaws of the foregone definition, which strikes me as being as happy as Jonah’s whale, that could carry probably the most learned man of his time inside without the necessity of digesting him,” said De Craye, “a rough truth is a rather strong charge of universal nature for the firing off of a modicum of personal fact.”

“It is a rough truth that Plato is Moses atticizing,” said Vernon to Dr. Middleton, to keep the diversion alive.

“And that Aristotle had the globe under his cranium,” rejoined the Rev. Doctor.

“And that the Moderns live on the Ancients.”

“And that not one in ten thousand can refer to the particular treasury he filches.”

“The Art of our days is a revel of rough truth,” remarked Professor Crooklyn.

“And the literature has laboriously mastered the adjective, wherever it may be in relation to the noun,” Dr. Middleton added.

“Orson’s first appearance at court was in the figure of a rough truth, causing the Maids of Honour, accustomed to Tapestry Adams, astonishment and terror,” said De Craye.  That he might not be left out of the sprightly play, Sir Willoughby levelled a lance at the quintain, smiling on Laetitia:  “In fine, caricature is rough truth.”

She said, “Is one end of it, and realistic directness is the other.”

He bowed.  “The palm is yours.”

Mrs. Mountstuart admired herself as each one trotted forth in turn characteristically, with one exception unaware of the aid which was being rendered to a distressed damsel wretchedly incapable of decent hypocrisy.  Her intrepid lead had shown her hand to the colonel and drawn the enemy at a blow.

Sir Willoughby’s “in fine”, however, did not please her:  still less did his lackadaisical Lothario-like bowing and smiling to Miss Dale:  and he perceived it and was hurt.  For how, carrying his tremendous load, was he to compete with these unhandicapped men in the game of nonsense she had such a fondness for starting at a table?  He was further annoyed to hear Miss Eleanor and Miss Isabel Patterne agree together that “caricature” was the final word of the definition.  Relatives should know better than to deliver these awards to us in public.

“Well?” quoth Lady Busshe, expressive of stupefaction at the strange dust she had raised.

“Are they on view, Miss Middleton?” inquired Lady Culmer.

“There’s a regiment of us on view and ready for inspection.”  Colonel De Craye bowed to her, but she would not be foiled.