HE crossed on his way to the house a tall parlour maid who had just quitted it with a tray which a moment later she deposited on the table near her mistress. Tony Bream was accustomed to say that since Frederick the Great’s grenadiers there had never been anything like the queen-mother’s parlourmaids, who indeed on field-days might, in stature¹, uniform and precision of exercise, have affronted² comparison with that formidable phalanx. They were at once more athletic³ and more reserved than Tony liked to see their sex, and he was always sure that the extreme length of their frocks was deter⁴ mined by that of their feet. The young woman, at any rate, who now presented herself, a young woman with a large nose and a straight back, stiff cap-streamers, stiffer petticoats and stiffest manners, was plainly the corporal of her squad⁵. There was a murmur⁶ and a twitter all around her; but she rustled⁷ about the tea-table to a tune⁹ that quenched¹⁰ the voice of summer. It left undisturbed, however, for awhile, Mrs. Beever’s meditations¹¹; that lady was thoughtfully occupied in wrapping up Doctor Ramage’s doll. “ Do you know, Manning, what has become of Miss Armiger?” she at last inquired.

“She went, ma’am, near an hour ago, to the pastrycook’s.”

“To the pastrycook’s? ”

“She had heard you wonder, ma’am, she told me, that the young ladies’ birthday-cake hadn’t yet arrived.”

“And she thought she’d see about it? Uncom monly good of her!” Mrs. Beever exclaimed.

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