drenched her hearers with her verbal hose, Mrs. Crisp smiled, then continued, "You must meet her. She goes away to-morrow. I want you to come to breakfast. Mr. Quelch is coming. He's so psychic. I love breakfast-parties." The last few jets were directed solely at Drewitt.
At the mention of the word "breakfast," Beresford glanced across at Drewitt, who had probably never been out to breakfast in his life. He usually rose in time for lunch, provided it were a late lunch; yet without the flicker of an eyelash he was telling Mrs. Crisp that he feared he had a breakfast engagement for the morrow.
"Who with?" demanded Lady Drewitt, suspiciously.
In a moment of misguided loyalty Beresford dashed in to the rescue.
"With me, Aunt Caroline." He wondered why Drewitt flashed at him a reproachful glance.
"Then you come too," broke in Mrs. Crisp, acknowledging Beresford's presence for the first time. "You'll enjoy Mr. Quelch. He's so fond of porridge, so am I. We have it every morning. It always reminds me of bag-pipes. Such dreadful things. They play them while you eat it in Scotland. Or is it haggis? It made me very ill when I was in Edinburgh. Mr. Quelch loves it. Such psychic qualities." Mrs. Crisp trailed off into staccatoed superlatives relative to the merits and virtues of Mr. Quelch, as if he had been a culinary chef d'œuvre, at the same time leaving in the minds
