As he was the only person talking at the table, he was considerably “behind” with his dinner. Unheeding, he discoursed on all through the _entrée_ and the saddle of mutton. “Yes! I may be hackneyed and old-fashioned, but that’s what I feel. What do you say, Major?” What chance had the Major of saying anything? The whole conversation had been pretty equally divided between the two _enfants terribles_—the girl of thirteen and the man of sixty. “Plenty of Romance in our young days! All over for us now! Still, we enjoy seeing the rising generation keep it up! Good luck to ’em. White heather for luck, eh? Yes, yes! Must have one of those little sprigs in my button-hole—memento of a very happy occasion!—Bless my soul, everybody finished except me? I talk too much, ha-ha!—must get on.” He went on eating very quickly, talking between mouthfuls. “‘Mock-orange,’ eh? Capital! Hope it won’t be long before we all see _real_ orange-blossom, a wreath of it, round the pretty head of a certain young lady in white! Yes! dash it all, Mary, I must drink that in champagne.” He took champagne. So did I. I felt I was going to need it! Mrs. Waters let it foam and sizzle into her glass; Blanche, though murmuring that the horrid stuff always reminded her of seltzer-water that the knives had been washed in, sipped at it for the sake of the “occasion.” Major Montresor took it—reverting afterwards to his invariable whisky and soda. The only “grown-up” who didn’t take it was my employer. Still Waters refused his usual peg and drank plain water. Every now and then he seemed to be making spasmodic efforts to remember that he had guests under his roof; but they weren’t successful! This added to my discomfort! I saw his mother glance at him, but only once, and with a half-humorous little smile! Didn’t she _mind_ the fact of the host remaining well over the verge of unmitigated sulks? Apparently not! Possibly she’s seen him in his tantrums before now—even though she didn’t know the reason of these! I was feeling almost thankful that one of the guests was such a host in himself; thankful, up to a point, for Theo’s gusto! For the child who was “sitting-up” grew more excited as each course was handed round. With her rose-flushed cheeks, her tossed curls from which the white fillet had slipped crookedly down over one eyebrow, her roving brown gaze, and her giggling spirits that raced higher and higher with the bubbles in the glasses (of the others), she was the model of an infant Bacchante. “Sitting-up!” It was her wretched brother whom she was causing to sit up, and his still more wretched official _fiancée_! The only thing to do was for both of us to rise to the situation. Only he wouldn’t—or couldn’t. So, once more _I_ had to. There is after all a certain relief in feeling you’ve reached the climax of all things, and that Fate _cannot_ have anything worse in store!