He spoke lightly, and with a pretty little graceful bow to his aunt, but there was something in his eyes and smile that conveyed to her a dread that he meant that he only resigned himself for the time and looked beyond.

“Uncle Lance is coming,” volunteered Adrian.

“Yes,” said Geraldine.  “Chorister that he was, and champion of Church teaching that he is, he makes the cause of Christian education everywhere his own, and is coming down to see what he can do inexpensively with native talent for concert, or masque, or something—-’Robin Hood’ perhaps.”

“Ending in character with a rush on the audience?” said Gerald.  “Otherwise ‘Robin Hood’ is stale.”

“Tennyson has spoilt that for public use,” said Mrs. Grinstead.  “But was not something else in hand?”

“Only rehearsed.  It never came off,” said Gerald.

“The most awful rot,” said Adrian.  “I would have nothing to do with it.”

“In consequence it was a failure,” laughed Gerald.

“It was ‘The Tempest’, wasn’t it?” said Anna.

“Not really!” exclaimed Mrs. Grinstead.

“About as like as a wren to an eagle,” said Gerald.

“We had it at the festival last winter.  The authors adapted the plot, that was all.”

“The authors being—­

“The present company,” said Gerald, “and Uncle Bill, with Uncle Lance supplying or adapting music, for we were not original, I assure you.”

“It was when Uncle Clem was ill,” put in Anna, “and somehow I don’t think we took in the accounts of it.”

“No,” said Gerald, “and nobody did it con amore, though we could not put it off.  I should like to see it better done.”

“Such rot!” exclaimed Adrian.  “There’s an old man, he was Uncle Lance with the great white beard made out of Kit’s white bear’s skin, and he lived in a desert island, where there was a shipwreck—-very jolly if you could see it, only you can’t—-and the savages-—no, the wreckers all came down.”

“What, in a desert island?”

“It was not exactly desert.  Gerald, I say, do let there be savages.  It would be such a lark to have them all black, and then I’d act.”

“What an inducement!”

“Then somebody turned out to be somebody’s enemy, and the old chap frightened them all with squibs and crackers and fog-horns, till somebody turned out to be somebody else’s son, and married the daughter.”

“If you trace ‘The Tempest’ through that version you are clever,” said Gerald.

“I told you it was awful rot,” said Adrian.

“There’s Merrifield!  Excuse me, Cherie.”  And off he went.

“The sentiments of the actors somewhat resembled Adrian’s.  It was too new, and needed more learning and more pains, so they beg to revert to ‘Robin Hood’.  However, I should like to see it well got up for once, if only by amateurs.  Miranda has a capital song by Uncle Bill, made for Francie’s soprano.  She cuts you all out, Anna.”