Ann nodded. "I think so, Marget. I can just recall them vaguely. We were all in bed before the elders actually came, but I remember the preparation, and how deeply I envied you and Ellie Robbie staying up, little dreaming, poor babe, how in after years I would envy the children who get away to bed before the party begins." "They were terrifying occasions to me," said her mother. "Elders in the mass are difficult to cope with. When they arrived they were shown into the study, and when the business part of the proceedings was over they trooped into the dining-room for supper. To keep the ball of conversation going, to compel them to talk and save the party from being a dismal failure was my job, and it was no light task. They were the best of men, our Kirkcaple elders, but they let every subject drop like a hot potato. It was from occasions like that I learned to talk 'even on,' as they say. I simply dared not let a silence fall, for, from bitter experience, I knew that if I did and caught your father's eye we would be sure to laugh and bring disgrace on ourselves." "Don't I know?" said her daughter. "Will you ever forget that night in Glasgow, when we invited your class to an evening party, and they all arrived in a body and in dead silence seated themselves round the room, and none of us could think of a single word to say, and in an agony we sat, becoming every moment more petrified, and my tongue got so stiff I felt that if I spoke it would break off, and Father suddenly broke the awful silence with 'Quite so,' delivered in a high, meaningless voice, and we simply fell on each other helpless with laughter?" Mrs. Douglas laughed at the recollection. "Once you let a silence fall," she said, "it's hopeless. Nothing seems important enough to break it with.... To go back to the Elders' Suppers--we always had the same menu. Hot roast beef, hot beef-steak pie, with vegetables, then plum-pudding and apple-tart, and coffee. The oldest elder, Charles Mitchell was his name, sat on my right hand, and the next eldest, Henry Petrie, sat on my left. Charles Mitchell was so deaf that any attempts to converse were thrown away on him. Henry Petrie was a man of most melancholy countenance, and absolutely devoid of light table-talk. He was sad, and said nothing, and might as well have been a post. One night, having tried him on every subject with no success, I watched him being helped to vegetables, and said, in desperation, 'Potatoes are good this year, don't you think?' He turned on me his mournful eyes, his knife suspended on its way to his mouth, and said, 'They'll no' stand a boil.'"