As every one appeared to be about the doctor’s age, things promised slowly for Parson and Telson, whose interest in Brown’s party decidedly languished when finally they found themselves swept off their perch and helplessly wedged into a corner by an impenetrable phalanx of skirts.

But this was nothing compared with a discovery they made at the same time that they had missed their tea! There was a merry rattle of cups and spoons in a room far off, through the half-open door of which they could catch glimpses of persons drinking tea, and of Brown handing round biscuits and cake. The sight of this was too much to be borne. It was at least worth an effort to retrieve their fatal mistake.

“I say,” said Telson, looking for his friend round the skirts of a stately female, “hadn’t we better go and help Brown, Parson?”

Luckless youth! The lady in question, hearing the unexpected voice at her side, backed a little and caught sight of the speaker.

“What, dear?” she said, benevolently, taking his hand and sitting down on the sofa; “and who are you, my little man?”

“My little man” was fairly trapped; there was no escaping this seizure. Parson got away safely to the tea-room, and the sight of him dodging about among the cakes and cups only added to the misery of the hapless Telson.

“Who are you, my little dear?” said the lady, who was no other than Miss Stringer herself.

Telson, fortunately for him, was ignorant of the fact — as ignorant, indeed, as Miss Stringer was of the fact that the little dear she was addressing was a Willoughbite.

“Telson, ma’am,” said Telson, following Parson with longing eyes.

“Johnny?” said the lady.

“No — Augustus,” replied the proud bearer of the name.

Miss Stringer surveyed him benevolently. He was a nice-looking boy, was Telson — and the lady thought so too.

“And will you give me a kiss, Augustus dear?” she said, with her most winning smile.

What could Augustus do? A hundred desperate alternatives darted through his mind. He would bolt into the tea-room; he would shout for help; he would show fight; he would— But while he was making up his mind what he would do, he found himself being kissed on the cheek in the most barefaced manner, before everybody, by this extraordinary female; and, more than that, being actually set down on the sofa beside her! He only hoped Parson or Brown had not seen it.

Well for Miss Stringer she did not guess the wrath that boiled in the bosom of her small companion!

“And do you live here, dear?” inquired she, pleased to have this opportunity of studying the juvenile human nature in which she was so much interested.

“No, I don’t,” said Telson, surlily; then, suddenly recollecting he was in polite though disagreeable company, he added, “ma’am.”

“And where do you go to school, pray?” inquired the spinster.

“Oh, Willoughby,” replied Telson, who had gradually given up all hope of tea, and was making up his mind to his fate.

Miss Stringer gave a little start at this piece of information, and was on the point of betraying her identity, but she forbore. “After all,” thought she, “he might be more constrained if I were to enlighten him on that subject.”

“So you go to Willoughby,” she said, with interest. “And how do you like it?”

“Oh, well enough,” said Telson, relenting somewhat towards his companion as she showed no further signs of kissing him. “Nice lot of fellows, you know, on the whole.”

“Indeed? Let me see, who is the head master?” inquired the lady.

“Oh, Paddy — that old boy there by the fire. And that’s Mrs Paddy there with the curls.”

Miss Stringer appeared to receive another shock at this piece of information, which, however, Telson, flattered by her evident interest in his remarks, did not take to heart.

“And,” said she, presently, with a slight nervousness in her voice, “I hope you like them?”

“Oh,” blurted out Telson, “Paddy’s not so bad, but the dame’s an old beast, you know — at least, so fellows say. I say,” added he, “don’t you tell her I said so!”

Miss Stringer regarded him with a peculiar smile, which the boy at once took to mean a promise. So he rattled on. “And she’s got a sister, or somebody hangs about the place, worse than any of them. Why, when old Wynd—”

“And,” said Miss Stringer, suddenly—“and which house are you in — in the schoolhouse?”

“Hullo, then! you know Willoughby?” demanded Telson sharply.

Miss Stringer looked confused, as well she might, but replied, “Ah! all public schools have a schoolhouse, have they not?”

“I suppose so,” said Telson. “Yes, I’m a schoolhouse fellow. I’m the captain’s fag, you know — old Riddell.”

“Mr Riddell is the captain, then?”

“Rather! Do you know him?”

Poor Miss Stringer! How sad it is, to be sure, when once we go astray. She, the Griffin of Willoughby, was as much at the mercy of this honest unconscious fag as if he had caught her in the act of picking a pocket. For how could she reveal herself now?

“I–I think I met him once,” she said.

“Where? at his home, was it?” asked Telson, who seemed to be urged by a most fiendish curiosity on the subject.

“No,” faltered the lady; “it was — er — I think it was at Dr Patrick’s.”

“Very likely,” said Telson. “He was up there to tea, I know, just before he was made captain. But I didn’t know any one else was there except Paddy and his hyenas.”

“His what, sir!” exclaimed Miss Stringer, in a voice which nearly startled Telson off the sofa.

“I mean, you know, the fellows—?”

“And where do you live at home?” asked Miss Stringer, determined to steer clear of this awkward topic.

“Oh, London,” said Telson; “do you know London?”

“Yes — it is indeed a wonderful place,” said Miss Stringer, “and whereabouts does your father live?”

“Oh, my governor’s in India,” began Telson.

“Your who?” said Miss Stringer, with a feeble attempt at severity.

“My dad, you know; and I live with my grandfather. Jolly old boy. He was at Willoughby when he was a boy. Did you know him then? I expect he’ll recollect you, you know.”

“I do not think,” said Miss Stringer, with a very ruffled countenance, “that your grandfather and I ever met.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He recollects most of the old people down here, you know. I say, there’s Parson beckoning; he’s my chum, you know. I expect he wants me to help with some of the things.”

And so saying off he went, leaving Miss Stringer, so to speak, fairly doubled up, and in a state of mind which may be more easily imagined than described.

Every one observed how singularly silent and retiring Miss Stringer was all that evening. Some attributed it to the heat of the room, others feared she might not be well, others guessed she found the Browns’ entertainment very slow; but no one, least of all Telson himself, had a suspicion of the true reason.

That young gentleman and his ally, after finding out that there was not much chance of their services being required to “look after the things”—the greengrocer being quite able to deal with the business single-handed — found themselves once more stranded in the drawing-room, and gradually getting edged back by the skirts, when an unlooked-for distinction rescued them from their perilous situation.

The distinction was none other than a sign of recognition from the doctor and a friendly signal to approach.

Like a pair of small well-trained circus ponies the two friends obeyed the summons and climbed over the intervening skirts.

“Well, Telson and Parson,” said the doctor, shaking hands, “I’d no idea you were here — how are you?”

“We got a captain’s permit. Quite well, thank you, sir.”

“My dear, these are two of our boys, Telson and Parson.”

Mrs Patrick regarded the two boys in her usual precise way, and said,—

“Among so many boys under our roof, I find it impossible to remember every face. And which is Master Telson?”