"Tilly, you look lovely," said Amelia.

"One thing about being a dress-designer," admitted Tilly, kissing her little sister, "is that you can design yourself a dress. 'Melia, you look a little duck. Mother, your hair is n't quite right. Let me pull it out a bit here."

She tweaked the coiffure of her much-enduring parent into position, whistling blithely. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkled. She was determined to look her best for d.i.c.ky that day. And to do her justice, she did.

"Tilly dear," remarked Mrs. Welwyn dubiously, "can we all get round that table for tea?"

"Gracious!" cried Tilly, observing the heavily loaded table for the first time. "You are never going to plant everybody round _that_, like nursery tea?"

"Ain't we?" said Mrs. Welwyn blankly.

"Certainly not," replied Tilly.

Swiftly she sketched out the fundamentals of that meal which combines the maximum of discomfort with the minimum of nourishment--afternoon-tea as consumed by high society in the present period--and in three minutes the great round table, tipped onto its edge, was trundled rapidly into Mr. Welwyn's bedroom, to the surprise and discomfort of Mr. Welwyn, who was dressing at the time.

"Now a small tea-table," commanded Tilly.

"There is n't such a thing in the house, love," panted her overheated parent.

"Yes, there is," said little 'Melia, the ever-ready. "In Mr.

Pumpherston's room. He keeps a text framed in fir-cones on it."

"You're right, dear; I had forgotten," admitted Mrs. Welwyn. "Well, Pumpherston is going to get bounced this evening anyway, so we might as well have his table now as then. Come with me and get it. He's out."

Left alone, Tilly flitted about the room, reviving its faded glories as far as she was able by deft touches here and there; straightening curtains, patting cushions, and confiding to various unresponsive articles of upholstery the information that her Love was like a Red, Red Rose.

"Tea-table here, I think," she said, pausing. "Probably Lady Adela would have hers nearer the fire; but then Lady Adela's drawing-room carpet has not got a hole in it. Come in!"

The door opened, and an eerie figure appeared. It was Mr. Russell--_ne_ Stillbottle--in his shirt-sleeves, wearing an insecurely fastened d.i.c.key. His black trousers, being much too long for him, presented a corrugated appearance. In his hand he carried a great bunch of pink carnations.

"These 'ave just been 'anded in, Miss," he announced. "No name, and"--with a slight note of congratulation in his voice--"nothing to pay."

Tilly thanked him, and, taking the flowers, buried her face in the heart of the bunch. When she withdrew it she found that Mr. Stillbottle was still present.

"If you could find him, Miss," he said deferentially, "I should like to 'ave a word with the Chief Nut."

"Who?"

"The old feller that's running this fake."

"Oh, my father?" said Tilly, biting her lip. "He is dressing, I think."

She tucked three or four carnations into her belt and began to arrange the others in a bowl.

"Then, perhaps," said Mr. Russell, "you could advise me on a purely personal matter."

"Certainly," replied Tilly absently. d.i.c.ky's gift still claimed all her attention.

"It's these trousers, Miss," explained Russell confidentially. "They are the pair supplied by the management; and between ourselves I don't think they suit me. Brother Perce may 'ave a faithful 'eart, but 'e 's _built_ all wrong. These trousers are six or eight inches too long in the leg. I feel as if I was wearin' a pair of concertinas. Now--"

This sartorial jeremiad was cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Welwyn, who, travelling full-speed astern and towing Amelia and the tea-table of Pumpherston in her wake, b.u.t.ted the double doors open, and backed heavily into the orator. Mr. Russell, looking deeply injured, retired to complete his toilet.

"That's better," said Tilly, when the small tea-table had been placed over the hole in the carpet, and the tea-tray had been placed over a hole in the tablecloth. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes," said Amelia.

"What about the babies?"

"I have washed and dressed them," said Mrs. Welwyn. "Melia will fetch them down for a few minutes about a quarter-to-six."

"That's all right," said Tilly approvingly. "They are darlings, both of them, and I should like to have them down all the time, but it's too risky. What time is it now?"

"Ten minutes to five," said Amelia.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Welwyn, greatly agitated at the proximity of her hour. "Where shall I sit, Tilly dear?"

"On the sofa, Mumsie; and don't get hot, because you are looking very nice," said Tilly soothingly. "Hallo, Dad--just in time!"

Mr. Welwyn in a frock-coat, looking quite the scholar and gentleman, had entered from his bedroom.

"I perceive the feast is spread," he observed jauntily. "Mistress of Ceremonies, how do we dispose ourselves?"

"Mother here," replied meticulous Tilly--"on the sofa with the 'Morning Post.' I picked it up off the floor of the railway-carriage this morning. Don't read it; just be glancing at it carelessly. Father, sit by the fire with a book. Here's one. 'Melia, you had better be on a footstool at Mother's feet, with your head against her knee. Don't fall over her when you get up, Mother. And don't come forward more than three steps to meet Lady Adela: you 're as good as she is, remember.

Say it's very sweet of her to come all this way. And if you call her 'your Ladyship,' I shall walk straight across the room and kill you--see?"

"Yes, lovey," sighed the fl.u.s.tered Mrs. Welwyn. "What _do_ I call her?"

"Lady Adela--not Lady Mainwaring, mind!"

"It sounds so familiar, starting Christian names right off," objected Mrs. Welwyn feebly.

"Never mind; you've got to do it," said Tilly ruthlessly. "I shall be here by the tea-table, and if any of you get on to thin ice I shall drop a teaspoon. Do you all understand?"

"Yes, Tilly," replied a respectful chorus.

"Very well, then," replied the Mistress of Ceremonies. "Now let me see you all in your places. Attention!"

Tilly clapped her hands, and her well-drilled retinue froze into their appointed att.i.tudes.

"Don't hold the 'Morning Post' as if you were trying to lick b.u.t.ter off it, Mother," said Tilly. "'Melia, pull up your stocking. Dad, you are splendid, but you are laughing. This is a serious business, remember.

Now, all keep like that for two minutes, to see if--Mercy on us, here they are!"

But she was wrong.

The door creaked, and swung slowly open, to admit the attenuated figure of Grandma Banks, who in the most unconcerned fashion possible hobbled across the room to the fireplace and seated herself in the vacant armchair opposite to her son-in-law, with every appearance of having come to anchor for the evening.

Grandma's descendants gathered into a panic-stricken knot in the corner.