"That white one--that one at the end," said Mr. Gunnill, with an
appearance of concentrated interest, "that's my fav'rite."

Miss Gunnill put her hands together, and a look of infinite
long-suffering came upon her face, but she made no reply.

"Always has been," continued Mr. Gunnill, feverishly, "from a--from a
cutting."

"Bailed out," said Miss Gunnill, in a deep and thrilling voice; "bailed
out at one o'clock in the morning, brought home singing loud enough for
half-a-dozen, and then talking about flowers!"

Mr. Gunnill coughed again.

"I was dreaming," pursued Miss Gunnill, plaintively, "sleeping
peacefully, when I was awoke by a horrible noise."

"That couldn't ha' been me," protested her father. "I was only a bit
cheerful. It was Benjamin Ely's birthday yesterday, and after we left
the Lion they started singing, and I just hummed to keep 'em company. I
wasn't singing, mind you, only humming--when up comes that interfering
Cooper and takes me off."

Miss Gunnill shivered, and with her pretty cheek in her hand sat by the
window the very picture of despondency. "Why didn't he take the others?"
she inquired.

"Ah!" said Mr. Gunnill, with great emphasis, "that's what a lot more of