“There’s a fine subject for a ballad for the ‘Traveller’s Joy,’ Babie.  ‘The Phantom Blackcock of Kilnaught!’”

Babie extemporised at once, amid great applause—-

“The hills are high, the laird’s purse dry,
Come out in the morning early;
McNabs are keen, the Guards are green,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.

“The Southron’s spoil ’tis worthy toil,
Come out in the morning early;
Come take my house and kill my grouse,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.

“Come out, come out, quoth Rory stout,
Come out in the morning early,
Sir Captain mark, he rises! hark,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.”

“Repetition, Babie,” said her mother; “too like the Montjoie S. Denis poem.”

“It saves so much trouble, mother.”

“And a recall to the freshness and innocence of childhood is so pleasing,” added Jock.

“How much did the man of family let his moor for?” asked Allen.

There Cecil saw the pitiful and indignant face opposite to him, would have sulked, and began looking at her for sympathy, exclaiming at last—-

“Haven’t you a word to say for me, Miss Brownlow?”

“I don’t like it at all.  I don’t think it is fair,” broke from Essie, as she coloured crimson at the laugh.

“He likes it, my dear,” said Babie.

“It is a gentle titillation,” said Allen.

“He can’t get on without it,” said the Friar.

“And comes for it like the cattle to the scrubbing-stones,” said the Skipjack.

“Yes,” said Armine; “but he tries to get pitied, like Chico walking on three legs when some one is looking at him.”

“You deal in most elegant comparisons,” said the mother.

“Only to get him a little more pitied,” said Jock.  “He is as grateful as possible for being made so interesting.”

“Hark, there’s a knock!” cried Allen.  “Can’t you instruct your cubs not to punish the door so severely, Jock?  I believe they think that the more row they make, the more they proclaim their nobility!”

“The obvious derivation of the word stunning,” said Mother Carey, as she rose to meet her guests in the drawing-room, and Cecil to hold the door for her.

“Stay, Evelyn,” said Allen.  “This is the night when unlicked cubs do disport themselves in our precincts.  A mistaken sense of philanthropy has led my mother to make this house the fortnightly salon bleu of St. Thomas’s.  But there’s a pipe at your service in my room.”

“Dr. Medlicott is coming,” said Babie, who had tarried behind the Johns, “and perhaps Mr. Grinstead, and we are sure to have Mr. Esdale’s photographs.  It is never all students, medical or otherwise.  Much better than Allen’s smoke, Cecil.”

“I am coming of course,” he said.  “I was only waiting for the Infanta.”