“Somebody’s come to dinner, and you’ve forgotten all about it.” She shook her head, and whispered back: “I haven’t asked any one to dinner; I’m sure I haven’t.” “Well, they’re here, whether we’ve asked them or not,” I hissed, “and you can’t turn ’em out. They expect to be fed.” “Who are they?” “Search me! Friends of yours I’ve never seen.” “For pity’s sake, don’t look surprised! Try and pretend it’s all right.” We lined up by the fireplace, and got our smiles all ready. The portière was drawn, and Perkins announced: “Major and Mrs. Thatcher.” They sailed smilingly into the room, the woman ahead, rustling in a long, sparkly, black dress. To my certain knowledge, I’d never seen either of them before. The woman was very pretty; not pretty in the sense that Daisy is, with beautiful features and a perfect complexion, but slim, and pale, and aristocratic-looking. She had black hair with a little wreath of red flowers in it, and the whitest neck I ever saw. She evidently thought she was all right as far as herself and the house and the dinner were concerned, for she was perfectly serene, and easy as an old shoe. The man behind her was a big, handsome, dense chap--just home from India, they said, and he looked it. He’d that dull way those dead swell army fellows sometimes have; it goes with a long mustache and an eye-glass. I looked out of the tail of my eye at Daisy, and I knew by her face she couldn’t remember either of them. But they were the genuine article, and she wasn’t going to be feazed by any situation that could boil up out of the society pool. She was just as easy as they were. She’d a smile on her face like a child, and she said the little, mild, milky things women say just as milkily and mildly as tho she was greeting her lifelong friends. Well, it went along as smoothly as a summer sea. They located themselves as Major and Mrs. Thatcher, and told a lot about their life and their movements--all of which I could see Daisy greedily gathering in. I didn’t know whether she remembered them or not, but I didn’t think she did, she was so careful about alluding to places where she had met them. They seemed to know her all right--Mrs. Thatcher, especially. She’d allude to smart houses where Daisy had been asked, and tony people that were getting to be friends of Daisy’s. She seemed to be right in the best circles herself. I wouldn’t like to say how many times she mentioned the names of earls and lords; one of them, Baron--some name like Fiddlesticks--she said was her cousin.