“Not so long as my making a fool of myself can get such a sweet-sounding laugh out of you,” he returned. “But, honest, Dey, how can you expect me to know them things about horns an’ Dutchmen an’ spinnin’, an’ all that, when you never tell me beforehand what it is you’re goin’ to play? When you’re doin’ those piano stunts, I always feel like you was travelin’ through places where the ‘No Thoroughfare’ sign’s hung out for _me_. Then when I make b’lieve I’m keepin’ up with you,--just so as I won’t get to feelin’ too lonesome,--you find it out somehow an’ call me down. What’s that thing you’re playin’ _now_?” Infinitely sweet, fraught with all the tender hopelessness of parting, the notes sobbed out into the little room; then stopped abruptly. “That’s all I know of it,” she said. “I only heard it once. In New York, winter before last. It’s the third act duet between Mimi and Rodolfo in ‘_Bohéme_.’ Where they say goodbye in the snow, at the Paris barrier. I wish I remembered the rest of it.” “Why, I thought those people was in the _play_ you told me about. You see I _do_ remember some things like that. Weren’t they the ones that was in love an’ the feller said the girl was his ‘Youth,’ an’ when she died--” “Yes. It’s an opera with the same sort of story. It’s queer you remember it. That’s the second time you’ve spoken to me about ‘_La Vie de Bohéme_’. How funny that a big, matter-of-fact business man like you should be interested in sentimental stories of Youth and Love and Death! Come!” rising from the music stool and losing the unwonted dreaminess that had stolen over her, “I’m going to talk to you now about the Standishes’ dinner. Have you _any_ idea how to behave, or what to do?” “Well,” drawled Caleb, “I guess it’s mor’n three years now since you loored me from the simple Jeffersonian joys of eatin’ with my knife. An’ I know ’bout not tuckin’ my napkin under my chin, an’ not makin’ noises like a swimmin’ pool while I’m eatin’ soup. An’--an I mustn’t touch the butter with my fork. You see I’ve learnt a lot by your lettin’ me come here to dinner so often. I guess there ain’t any more things to remember, are there? The part about the butter will be hardest, but--” “There won’t be any butter,” said Desirée, “So there’s one less temptation for you to grapple with.” “Then I’ll be all right about the eatin’,” replied Conover. “Knife, soup, napkin, butter. Anything else?” “Only about fifty more things,” answered Desirée, pessimistically. “Oh, I do wish I were to be there to coach you!” “Want an invitation?” asked Caleb, eagerly. “How silly! At the eleventh hour? Of course I don’t. I hardly know them. Besides I’m going to the musicale afterward. But I’m _so_ afraid you’ll do something you ought not to. You won’t, _will_ you?” “Most likely I will,” confessed Caleb, ruefully. “But I bought a book to-day ’bout etiquette an’ I’m reading up a little. I’ve got one or two pointers already. Napkins are servy--serv--”