Probably Bismarck never enjoyed anything in his life as much as the all
too brief moment in which, leaning from his mistress's lap in the prow
of the flying "Bollée," he barked hysterically in the wake of the
piebald dog, who, in all its dolorous career had never before had the
awful experience of being chased by a motor-car. It darted in at the
open door of the lodge; the pursuers pulled up outside. There were
paraffin lamps in the windows, the open door was garlanded with
evergreens; from it proceeded loud and hilarious voices and the jerky
strains of a concertina. Mrs. Alexander, with all, her most cherished
convictions toppling on their pedestals, stood in the open doorway and
stared, unable to believe the testimony of her own eyes. Was that the
immaculate Barnet seated at the head of a crowded table, in her--Mrs.
Alexander's--very best bonnet and velvet cape, with a glass of steaming
potheen punch in her hand, and Willy Fennessy's arm round her waist?

The glass sank from the paragon's lips, the arm of Mr. Fennessy fell
from her waist; the circle of servants, tinkers, and country people
vainly tried to efface themselves behind each other.

"Barnet!" said Mrs. Alexander in an awful voice, and even in that moment
she appreciated with an added pang the feathery beauty of a slice of
Barnet's sponge-cake in the grimy fist of a tinker.

"Mrs. Fennessy, m'm, if you please," replied Barnet, with a dignity
that, considering the bonnet and cape, was highly creditable to her
strength of character.

At this point a hand dragged Mrs. Alexander backwards from the doorway,
a barefooted woman hustled past her into the house, slammed the door in