"You will explain, won't you ?" Marigold entered, announcing dinner.

We went into the dining-room.

All through the meal Bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with dishes and plates, and Marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring claret, stood grim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his posterior before a blazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty.

Conversation fell a little flat.

The arrival of the evening newspapers, half an hour belated, created a diversion.