table.

"That's jest a story!" cried Betty. Still clinging to her father's hand,
she entered the dining room; "that's jest a story, papa," she repeated.

"No, I'm not angry," laughed the Governor. "There, my dear, for heaven's
sake don't strangle me. Your mother's the one for you to hang on. Can't you
see what a rage she's in?"

"My dear Mr. Ambler," remonstrated his wife, looking over the high old
silver service. She was very frail and gentle, and her voice was hardly
more than a clear whisper. "No, no, Betty, you must go up and wash your
face first," she added decisively.

The Governor sat down and unfolded his napkin, beaming hospitality upon his
food and his family. He surveyed his wife, her two maiden aunts and his own
elder brother with the ineffable good humour he bestowed upon the majestic
home-cured ham fresh from a bath of Madeira.

"I am glad to see you looking so well, my dear," he remarked to his wife,
with a courtliness in which there was less polish than personality. "Ah,
Miss Lydia, I know whom to thank for this," he added, taking up a pale tea
rosebud from his plate, and bowing to one of the two old ladies seated
beside his wife. "Have you noticed, Julia, that even the roses have become
more plentiful since your aunts did us the honour to come to us?"

"I am sure the garden ought to be grateful to Aunt Lydia," said his wife,
with a pleased smile, "and the quinces to Aunt Pussy," she added quickly,
"for they were never preserved so well before."