The butler was really the climactic triumph of the event. And he was Missy's own inspiration. She had been racking her brains for some way to eliminate the undistinguished Marguerite, to conjure through the very strength of her desire some approach to a proper servitor. If only they had ONE of those estimable beings in Cherry vale! A butler, preferably elderly, and “steeped in respectability” up to his port-wine nose; one who would hover around the table, adjusting this dish affectionately and straightening that, and who, whenever he left the room, left it with a velvet step and an almost inaudible sigh of satisfaction... And then, quite suddenly, she had hit upon the idea of “Snowball” Saunders. Snowball had come to the house to borrow the Merriams' ice-cream freezer. There was to be an informal “repast” at the Shriners' hall, and Snowball engineered all the Shriners' gustatory festivities from “repasts” to “banquets.” Sometimes, at the banquets, he even wore a dress suit. It was of uncertain lineage and too-certain present estate, yet it was a dress suit. It was the recollection of the dress suit that had given Missy her inspiration. To be sure, in England, butlers were seldom “coloured,” but in Cherry vale one had to make some concessions. The butler was wearing his dress suit as he came bearing the oyster cocktails. “Hello, Snowball!” greeted Raymond Bonner, genially. “Didn't know you were invited to-night.” Snowball? what a gosherie! With deliberate hauteur Missy spoke: “Oh, Saunders, don't forget to fill the glasses with ice-water.” Raymond cast her an astonished look, but, perhaps because he was more impressed by the formality of the function than he would have admitted, refrained from any bantering comment. The hostess, then, with a certain righteous complacence, lowered her eyes to her cocktail glass. Oh, heavens! It was the first time, so carried away had she been with this new, intoxicating feeling, that she had really noticed what she was eating--how she was eating it. She was eating her oysters with her after-dinner coffee spoon! The tiny-pronged oyster fork was lying there on the cloth, untouched! Oh, good heavens! An icy chill of mortification crept down her spine, spread out through her whole being. She had made a mistake--SHE, the hostess! A whirlwind of mortal shame stormed round and round within her. If only she could faint dead away in her chair! If only she could weep, and summon mother! Or die! Or even if she could sink down under the table and hide away from sight. But she didn't know how to faint; and hostesses do not weep for their mothers; and, in real life, people never die at the crucial moments; nor do they crawl under tables. All she could do was to force herself at last, to raise her stricken eyelids and furtively regard her guests. Oh, dear heaven! They were all--ALL of them--eating their oyster cocktails with their after-dinner coffee spoons!