meet in the Orange Room for some sacred music--it need not be called
a 'concert'--" Dorothea stopped short, amazed at her own inventiveness.

"H'm. I envy your simplicity, my dear soul, in believing that the--
ah--alleged _ennui_ of these men can he cured by a talk about
Vespasian. But when you go on to talk of sacred music, I must be
permitted to remind you that a concert is none the less a concert for
being called by another name. We Britons do not usually allow names to
disguise facts. A concert--call it even a 'sacred' concert--in the
Orange Room, amid those distinctly--ah--pagan adornments! I can
scarcely even term it the thin end of the wedge, so clearly can I see
it paving the way for other questionable indulgences. I don't doubt
your good intentions, Dorothea, but you cannot, as a woman, be expected
to understand how easily the best intentions may convert Axcester, with
its French community, into a veritable hot-bed of vice. And, by-the-by,
you might tell Morrish I shall want the horse again in half-an-hour's
time."

Dorothea left the room on her errand. As she closed the door Narcissus
looked up from his toast.

"Hot-bed of fiddlesticks!" said he.

"I--ah--beg your pardon?"

Endymion, in the act of seating himself at table, paused to stare.

"Hot-bed of fiddlesticks!" repeated Narcissus. "You needn't have
snapped Dorothea's head off. I thought her suggestions extremely
sensible."