Joy could only watch, all her energies concentrated on stifling the mirth that their antics were inspiring. The waiter brought their tea and Jerry’s “merring,” which Jerry devoured with the aid of a spoon, a knife and fork, using her roll also as a pusher now and then. Harry drank tea from his saucer and discoursed on the grudge he bore the Standard Oil; they were a bunch of cheap skates, and they would be a bunch of soreheads to-morrow when they learned that Mr. Mitchell had nailed this contract. “For it is yours, young man, for the asking; and yours is a firm I would trust a lot further than that.” The people of the next table had given up all pretense of eating or talking to each other, and the table back of Joy was also avidly silent. She could not see them, but she could feel the tense attention, and sense the vibrations of vision that centered on their table. Tea being over, Harry grew more expansive. “You going to step round to the minister’s soon, you two?” he beamed benevolently. “Better not waste any time. I married Rosie when she was sixteen—Told her then to stick to me and she’d wear diamonds. I notice you stuck, old girl?” “Now, Bill, you stop!” Jerry simpered. The head waiter was presenting the check. Several other waiters who had added to their sense of well-being were lined up in back of the head waiter. Steve started to take the bill, but Harry intervened. “Pay my way’s my motto,” he said, whereat Steve lost his composure for the first time and gulped while Harry drew his rather thin wallet from his pocket and carefully counted out what looked like a small amount which he laid on the salver with the check. Steve recovered himself and filled in the awkward pause by saying: “Yes, we intend to be married as soon as Miss Nelson can get her trousseau together. It’s already taken a year—as fast as she gathers a few little things together, why, they go out of style, and then she has to start all over again. It’s such a fearful ordeal for the poor darling!” They rose to go, Joy conscious of an acute sag in the waiter’s expression as he took the salver and walked away with failing footsteps. And then she turned and saw the table whose listening silence she had been appreciating throughout that time. She stared in stupefaction. The Lamkins; the Alfred Lamkins from Foxhollow Corners; pillars of the church, two solid, well-buttressed souls, with four white-eyelashed, shiny-nosed, unmarried daughters. All staring at Joy in that awful delight experienced by small-town souls when they find their neighbours doing something out of the ordinary. “Why—there’s Joy Nelson!” said Mrs. Lamkin, in obviously manufactured surprise. “So it is!” chorused the four white-eyelashed things. “Hello, Joy!”