intercept him, glided away to another part of the lawn. I
found him a few minutes later happily engaged in teaching the
youngest Rampage boy the approved theory of mixing absinthe,
within full earshot of his mother. Mrs. Rampage occupies a
prominent place in local Temperance movements.

As soon as I had broken up this unpromising tete-a-tete and
settled Reginald where he could watch the croquet players
losing their tempers, I wandered off to find my hostess and
renew the kitten negotiations at the point where they had
been interrupted. I did not succeed in running her down at
once, and eventually it was Mrs. McKillop who sought me out,
and her conversation was not of kittens.

"Your cousin is discussing Zaza with the Archdeacon's wife;
at least, he is discussing, she is ordering her carriage."

She spoke in the dry, staccato tone of one who repeats a
French exercise, and I knew that as far as Millie McKillop
was concerned, Wumples was devoted to a lifelong celibacy.

"If you don't mind," I said hurriedly, "I think we'd like our
carriage ordered too," and I made a forced march in the
direction of the croquet-ground.

I found everyone talking nervously and feverishly of the
weather and the war in South Africa, except Reginald, who was
reclining in a comfortable chair with the dreamy, far-away
look that a volcano might wear just after it had desolated
entire villages. The Archdeacon's wife was buttoning up her