A splash followed. Grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and
put her handkerchief to her face.

"Good heavens! what did you do that for, Creedle?" said Giles, sternly,
and jumping up.

"'Tis how I do it when they baint here, maister," mildly expostulated
Creedle, in an aside audible to all the company.

"Well, yes--but--" replied Giles. He went over to Grace, and hoped
none of it had gone into her eye.

"Oh no," she said. "Only a sprinkle on my face. It was nothing."

"Kiss it and make it well," gallantly observed Mr. Bawtree.

Miss Melbury blushed.

The timber-merchant said, quickly, "Oh, it is nothing! She must bear
these little mishaps." But there could be discerned in his face
something which said "I ought to have foreseen this."

Giles himself, since the untoward beginning of the feast, had not quite
liked to see Grace present. He wished he had not asked such people as
Bawtree and the hollow-turner. He had done it, in dearth of other
friends, that the room might not appear empty. In his mind's eye,
before the event, they had been the mere background or padding of the
scene, but somehow in reality they were the most prominent personages
there.

After supper they played cards, Bawtree and the hollow-turner
monopolizing the new packs for an interminable game, in which a lump of
chalk was incessantly used--a game those two always played wherever
they were, taking a solitary candle and going to a private table in a
corner with the mien of persons bent on weighty matters. The rest of
the company on this account were obliged to put up with old packs for
their round game, that had been lying by in a drawer ever since the
time that Giles's grandmother was alive. Each card had a great stain
in the middle of its back, produced by the touch of generations of damp
and excited thumbs now fleshless in the grave; and the kings and queens
wore a decayed expression of feature, as if they were rather an
impecunious dethroned race of monarchs hiding in obscure slums than
real regal characters. Every now and then the comparatively few
remarks of the players at the round game were harshly intruded on by
the measured jingle of Farmer Bawtree and the hollow-turner from the
back of the room: "And I' will hold' a wa'-ger with you'
That all' these marks' are thirt'-y two!"