Bob Skinny’s disgust was extreme. The idea that he was to be superseded by a person of such low origin and inferior talents as Bridges was exasperating to the last degree. “Dat ar owdacious Bridges man,” he complained to Lewis, “he think he know ev’ything. He come a-countin’ my spoons an’ forks, an’ he say, ‘How many spoons an’ forks has you got?’ An’ I say, ‘Millions on ’em--millions on ’em; de Skeltons allers had more’n anybody in de worl’. I nuvver count all on ’em, myse’f.’ _He_ ain’ nuvver been to furrin parts; an’ when I ax him, jist to discomfuse him, ef he couldn’ play on de fluke er nuttin’, he say he ain’ got no time fer sich conjurements. I tole him, maybe he so us’ ter settin’ up wid dade folks an’ undertakin’ dat he dunno nuttin’ ’bout a party; an’ he went an’ tole Mr. Skelton. But Mr. Skelton, he shet him up. He say, ‘Well, Bridges, I daresay you’ll have to put up wid Bob Skinny. De wuffless rascal done had he way fur so long dat nobody now kin hardly conflagrate him.’ So now, sence de Bridges man know my corndition, I jes’ walks out in de g’yardin, a-playin’ my fluke, an’ when he sen’ fur me, I tell him ter go long--I doan’ do no wuk dese days; ’tain’t none o’ my ball--’tis his’n--an’ ter be sho’ an’ doan’ make no mistake dat it is a funeral.” As this was literally true, war to the knife was inaugurated between Bridges and Bob Skinny. Bob consoled himself, though, by promising that, when the musicians arrived, “I gwi’ jine ’em, an’ take my place ’longside de hade man, an’ gwi’ show ’em how I play de fluke fo’ de Duke o’ Wellingcome, an’ de Prince Rejump, and Napoleon Bonyparte, an’ all dem high-flyers dat wuz allus arter Mr. Skelton ter sell me ter ’em when we wuz ’broad.” Mrs. Shapleigh was in a state of much agitation, first, for fear the bird of paradise wouldn’t come, and then for fear it wouldn’t be becoming. Nor was Sylvia’s mind quite easy until the new white-lutestring ball dress was an accomplished fact. And at Newington, too, was much concern. An invitation had been sent to the Blairs, of course, and as Hilary was now on the highroad to recovery, there was no reasonable excuse for the Blairs not going. According to the hospitable customs of the age, to decline to go to a certain house was an acknowledgment of the most unqualified enmity. The resources of the people were so few, that to refuse an invitation to a festivity could only proceed from the most deadly ill-will. People who avowedly disliked each other yet kept up a visiting acquaintance, for, as they were planted by each other in perpetuity, they were forced to be wary in their enmities.