"must be. He may come down of his own accord in the night. Bein'
'ungry."

"Then what we must do," said Ukridge in a jovial manner, which to me
at least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly picnic-
dinner, what? Whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that."

"A regular, jolly picnic-dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. I
could read what was passing in his mind,--remorse for having come at
all, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it.

"That will be splendid," said Phyllis.

"Er, I think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fair
for us to give any further trouble to Mrs. Ukridge and yourself. If
you will allow me, therefore, I will----"

Ukridge became gushingly hospitable. He refused to think of allowing
his guests to go empty away. He would be able to whack up something,
he said. There was quite a good deal of the ham left. He was sure. He
appealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardines
and part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese.

"And after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in the
generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want in
weather like this? A nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much better
for us than a lot of hot things."

We strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed to
drag. Conversation was fitful, except on the part of Ukridge, who