The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style of carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name of       'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled.     

       But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out 'Fore!' or something to that effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe re-seated himself in an over-wrought state.     

       'Tell me about St Austin's, Mr MacArthur,' said Miss Beezley, as the Babe was trying to think of something to say—not about the weather. 'Do you play football?'     

       'Yes.'     

       'Ah!'     

       A prolonged silence.     

       'Do you—' began the Babe at last.     

       'Tell me—' began Miss Beezley, simultaneously.     

       'I beg your pardon,' said the Babe; 'you were saying—?'     

       'Not at all, Mr MacArthur. You were saying—?'     

       'I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?'     

       'Yes; do you?'     

       'No.'     

       'Ah!'     

       'If this is going to continue,' thought the Babe, 'I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit suicide.'     

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