share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further
onslaught, was not large.

One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a
series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch
together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he
was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost
swooned. The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style of
carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of
carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name
of 'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took
hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other,
and pulled.

But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird
out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute.
Stifling a mad inclination to call out 'Fore!' or something to that
effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant
fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked
permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the
chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe re-seated himself in an
over-wrought state.

'Tell me about St Austin's, Mr MacArthur,' said Miss Beezley, as the
Babe was trying to think of something to say--not about the weather.
'Do you play football?'

'Yes.'

'Ah!'