"What's this?"
"Flowers, sir."
"It is twenty to seven, sir,—and I want to lay the table—for our Mr. Christopher's dinner."
Roland stood up, gaillard and sly.
"Did you pick all that, Fanny? My word, there will be a storm!"
"Bowden picked them himself, sir."
"Marvellous! Well,—I had better go and pick the champagne. And,—Stephen"
He paused with a hand on Sorrell's shoulder.
"Will you warn everybody that I want them all to come in here after dinner and drink Kit's health."
He was looking into Sorrell's eyes as though he had other news for him, but was holding it back until the end of the feast.
"A real 'bump' supper, Stephen. Yo-ho!"
The drinking of Kit's health was only a part of the Pelican parade. Kit made a speech of five words. "Thanks—awfully—all of you." He blushed, and all the women wanted to kiss him. They drank Sorrell's health, and Mr. Porteous's health, and Mr. Porteous made a speech and flourished his serviette like a victorious flag. They drank Mr. Roland's health, with musical honours, Mr. Porteous crashing at the piano. They drank the staff's health, and good luck to the Pelican. Bells rang and were ignored.
It was the happiest of evenings, but for Sorrell the crowning happiness was yet to come.
Christopher had gone to bed, and Roland and Sorrell had seen Mr. Porteous fifty yards along the Winstonbury road, and were strolling back under the stars. The night was full of the smell of new-mown hay, and about the Pelican the great trees were asleep.
Roland,—breathing deeply because of the night's fragrance, paused, and in pausing looked up at the shadowy shape of the Pelican hanging from the cross-beam.
"Good bird, excellent bird."
His voice seemed to vibrate with concealed laughter.
"The wise people won't allow us to believe in luck,
