Then every one simultaneously noticed Cyril, for he gave a yell.  It was not the cry of a despairing soul who sees his beautiful iridescent dream shattered at his feet; it was the cry of the strong, masterful spirit, furious.  He turned upon Jennie, sobbing, and snatched at her cake.  Unaccustomed to such behaviour from hosts, and being besides a haughty put-you-in-your-place beauty of the future, Jennie defended her cake.  After all, it was not she who had taken two slices at once.  Cyril hit her in the eye, and then crammed most of the slice of cake into his enormous mouth.  He could not swallow it, nor even masticate it, for his throat was rigid and tight.  So the cake projected from his red lips, and big tears watered it.  The most awful mess you can conceive!  Jennie wept loudly, and one or two others joined her in sympathy, but the rest went on eating tranquilly, unmoved by the horror which transfixed their elders.

A host to snatch food from a guest!  A host to strike a guest!  A gentleman to strike a lady!

Constance whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with him to his own room (once Samuel’s), where she smacked him on the arm and told him he was a very, very naughty boy and that she didn’t know what his father would say.  She took the food out of his disgusting mouth—­or as much of it as she could get at—­and then she left him, on the bed.  Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushing scarlet and trying to smile, Constance returned to the drawing-room.  Jennie would not be appeased.  Happily Jennie’s mother (being about to present Jennie with a little brother—­she hoped) was not present.  Miss Insull had promised to see Jennie home, and it was decided that she should go.  Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonic spirits, said that he would go too; the three departed together, heavily charged with Constance’s love and apologies.  Then all pretended, and said loudly, that what had happened was naught, that such things were always happening at children’s parties.  And visitors’ relatives asseverated that Cyril was a perfect darling and that really Mrs. Povey must not ...

But the attempt to keep up appearance was a failure.

The Methuselah of visitors, a gaping girl of nearly eight years, walked across the room to where Constance was standing, and said in a loud, confidential, fatuous voice: 

“Cyril has been a rude boy, hasn’t he, Mrs. Povey?”

The clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic.

Later, there was a trickling stream of fluffy bundles down the crooked stairs and through the parlour and so out into King Street.  And Constance received many compliments and sundry appeals that darling Cyril should be forgiven.

“I thought you said that boy was in his bedroom,” said Samuel to Constance, coming into the parlour when the last guest had gone.  Each avoided the other’s eyes.

“Yes, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“The little jockey!” ("Jockey,” an essay in the playful, towards making light of the jockey’s sin!) “I expect he’s been in search of Amy.”