tea, and fruits, grapes and peaches, and strawberries, in a beautifully carved oak tray. She watched for a moment his thick, half-washed fingers fumbling over the fruits, then she turned her head away. All the gay teatime, when the talk bubbled and frothed over all the cups, she avoided him with her eyes. Yet again and again, as someone said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Saxton—will you have some cake?”—or “See, Mr. Saxton—try this peach, I’m sure it will be mellow right to the stone,”—speaking very naturally, but making the distinction between him and the other men by their indulgence towards him, Lettie was forced to glance at him as he sat eating, answering in monosyllables, laughing with constraint and awkwardness, and her irritation flickered between her brows. Although she kept up the gay frivolity of the conversation, still the discord was felt by everybody, and we did not linger as we should have done over the cups. “George,” they said afterwards, “was a wet blanket on the party.” Lettie was intensely annoyed with him. His presence was unbearable to her. She wished him a thousand miles away. He sat listening to Cresswell’s whimsical affectation of vulgarity which flickered with fantasy, and he laughed in a strained fashion.
He was the first to rise, saying he must get the cows up for milking.
“Oh, let us go—let us go. May we come and see the cows milked?” said Hilda, her delicate, exquisite features flushing, for she was very shy.
“No,” drawled Freddy, “the stink o’ live beef ain’t salubrious. You be warned, and stop here.”
“I never could bear cows, except those lovely little
