"Ah," the professor would say, "now is that really so? Very interesting indeed." 

 Only once, when Ukridge was describing some more than usually original device for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slight spasm disturb Phyllis's look of attentive reverence. 

 "And you have really had no previous experience in chicken-farming?" she said. 

 "None," said Ukridge, beaming through his glasses. "Not an atom. But I can turn my hand to anything, you know. Things seem to come naturally to me somehow." 

 "I see," said Phyllis. 

 It was while matters were progressing with this beautiful smoothness that I observed the square form of the Hired Retainer approaching us. Somehow—I cannot say why—I had a feeling that he came with bad news. Perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me as ominous. 

 "Beg pardon, Mr. Ukridge, sir." 

 Ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feeding of fowls, a subject on which he held views of his own as ingenious as they were novel. The interruption annoyed him. 

 "Well, Beale," he said, "what is it?" 

 "That there cat, sir, what came to-day." 

 "Oh, Beale," cried Mrs. Ukridge in agitation, "what has happened?" 

 "Having something to say to the missis—" 

 "What has happened? Oh, Beale, don't say that Edwin has been hurt? Where is he? Oh, poor Edwin!" 

 "Having something to say to the missis—" 

 "If Bob has bitten him I hope he had his nose well scratched," said Mrs. Ukridge vindictively. 

 "Having something to say to the missis," resumed the Hired Retainer tranquilly, "I went into the kitchen ten minutes back. The cat was sitting on the mat." 

 Beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book I had read in my infancy. I wish I could remember its title. It was a well-written book. 

 "Yes, Beale, yes?" said Mrs. Ukridge. "Oh, do go on." 

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