HAD a pin fallen in the tent at that moment, any one of those three people might have expected to hear it do so. Gerty was too wise to ask why the husband of the outcast Melia had come to enjoy the special gift of his father-in-law; Maria simply dare not. In truth it was an odd story. Josiah did his best to put a gloss on an incredible fact of which he was rather ashamed; it looked so much like moral weakness, a public giving in; but, as he informed Gerty with a half apologetic air, Jannock was Jannock. In other words, fair play in the eyes of honest men was a jewel.

There could be no question that, in point of color, the fairest bloom sent in was Exhibit Sixteen. It was a rose of such a dazzling snowy whiteness that it had caught and held the expert eye of the President at the morning inspection. “An easy winner, Jennings,” he had said, as soon as he had seen it, “Nothing to put beside it, my boy.”

The astute Jennings, a professional nurseryman along The Rise, made no comment. He had taken the trouble to find out the name of the grower before bringing a mature judgment to bear on the fruits of his craft. “Sound” criticism is always a priori. Critics who value their reputation are careful not to pronounce an opinion on any work of art until they know who has produced it. Otherwise mistakes are apt to occur. None knew better than Jennings that the grower of Exhibit Sixteen could not hope to receive the President’s prize; indeed Jennings was amazed at the little tick’s impudence in daring to compete at all for his father-in-law’s silver gilt goblet. It was an act of bravado. Jennings, therefore, shook his head coldly. He declined to show enthusiasm in the presence of what to the unsuspecting eye of the President was an almost too obvious masterpiece.

“All over a winner, Jennings, that is.”

Jennings shook the sober head of a professional expert. “To me,” he said, “Twenty-one ’as more quality.”

“Rubbish, man!” The President threw up his head sharply, a favorite trick when goaded by contradiction. “Twenty-one can’t be mentioned on the same day o’ the week. What do you say, Penney?”

Before Mr. Councilor Penney, an acknowledged light of the a priori school of criticism, ventured to express an opinion he winged a glance at Nurseryman Jennings. And that glance, in the technical language of experts, conveyed a clear request for “the office.”

“The office” was given sotto voce behind the adroit hand of Jennings, “Mester Munt—Twenty-one, Sixteen—Bill Hollis.”

Thereupon Mr. Councilor Penney closed one eye and proceeded to examine the competing blooms. “Well, Mester Munt,” he said solemnly, “I am bound to say, to my mind Twenty-one ’as it.”

The impetuous president had a short way with the Councilor Penneys of the earth. “Have you no eyes, man! Twenty-one can’t live beside Sixteen. Not the same class. Look at the color—look at the shape—look at the size——”

It was realized now that it had become necessary to warn the President. And the situation must be grappled with at once. The deeper the President floundered, the more perilous the job of extrication. Rescue was a man’s work, but finally in response to a mute appeal from the pusillanimous Jennings, Mr. Councilor Penney took his courage in his hands. “Mr. Munt,” he said warily, “don’t you know that Twenty-one was sent in by Joe Mellers, your own gardener?”

It was the best that Mr. Councilor Penney could muster in the way of tact. But at all times a very great deal of tact was needed to handle the President. Clearly the shot was not a lucky one. “Nowt to do with it, Penney.” The great man nearly bit off his head. “Ought to know that. Sixteen’s the best bloom on the bench.”

“Sixteen’s that Hollis!” It was an act of pure valor on the part of Mr. Councilor Penney. Nurseryman Jennings held his breath.

“That Hollis!” The President repeated the words calmly. For a moment it was not certain that human dignity could accept their implication. But there was a world of meaning in the nervous frown of Mr. Councilor Penney, in the tense furtiveness of Nurseryman Jennings.

Was it possible?... Was it possible that the little skunk had dared?... Had dared to compete at this show of all shows?... Had dared to win honestly that prize of all prizes?...

The story of Bill Hollis and Melia Munt was a commonplace with every member of the Committee. They were familiar with all the circumstances; and though there might be those among them who felt privately that their august President carried family pride rather far, even these could not help admiring the rigidity of his attitude. It meant enormous strength of character; and character in the shrine at which the true Briton worships. But now that the Committee was up against the problem Bill Hollis had raised they keenly regretted that they had not taken steps to disqualify him from the outset, or had not apprised the President beforehand of the state of the case.

The pause that followed was rather irksome for all parties. It was ended at last by Nurseryman Jennings. That practical expert, having enjoyed an afternoon of free whisky at the President’s expense, was now able to clothe his judgment becomingly. “Don’t suppose the little Snot grew it hisself!” said Jennings.

Half the Committee saw at once that a way out had been found for the President. But the President was not of the number. “Why don’t you?” he said curtly.

The practical expert was hardly prepared with reasons. Why should he be? His doubts were inspired by the purest altruism. “Why don’t you, Jennings?” repeated the President.

Really there is no helping some people!

“Because I don’t!” It was rather lame, but Jennings was doing his best in extremely trying circumstances.

The longer, tenser pause that followed none was stout enough to break. Up to a hundred might have been counted before the President said, slowly and gruffly, as a large and shaggy bear endowed with a few limited human vocables might have done, “Have the goodness, Jennings, to mark Exhibit Sixteen for the President’s Special.”

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