Milly beheld that she “was in for a sickening evening.” She wished that awful Mrs. Mosely had at least put one woman beside her. Guests finally took their seats when Mrs. Mosely had taken hers—up in Paris a hostess was always the last seated and more usually out in the kitchen, looking after things—and then Milly got her first shock of that evening of shocks when she shook out her napkin and found some one had hidden a roll in it. Down on the floor went the roll and Milly had quite a time recovering. The fat gentleman told her not to mind and to leave it for the servants to recover later. But Milly remarked, not without some heat, that “somebody might step on it and work it into the carpet”, and the roll episode being closed, she faced her “plate of cracked ice.” In the next five minutes Milly discovered oyster cocktail and rather approved of oyster cocktail; when she had held back to see which spoon the Cynthia person employed and how she employed it, finding it to be a fork,—“pickle fork, at that!” thought Milly. “And one for everybody!” Then Milly “caught on” as to where the food was. As fast as you disposed of one course the servants took your empty plate and brought another. Great idea, but what an awful lot of dishes you had to have. And think of the job of washing them afterward! During the soup, Milly located Nathan. She was a little surprised at Nathan. He was proceeding cautiously but did not appear at all distressed. Nathan, in fact, looked as though he were actually enjoying himself. He had the stout girl in silver-gray on one side and a tall, cold-faced Amazon in black upon the other. And he was carrying on conversation with both. Milly felt rather proud of Nathan. Never until this moment had she noticed how well he parted his hair. Maybe she had not done so poorly in marrying Nathan, after all. A maid distributed plates from the left and after her came another, laying knives and forks softly in their proper places. Then a manservant presented the various dishes, and until Milly noticed that the others were not doing it, she took the big dish from the servant’s hand as she helped herself,—a proceeding which perturbed that worthy greatly. The fellow with the trick mustache essayed several attempts at conversation which Milly answered in monosyllables. Then the fat man at her right turned to her with a suddenness which almost made her upset her water glass and asked: “Have you seen Barrymore in ‘Peter Ibbetson’ yet, Mrs. Forge?” Milly had not seen Barrymore in “Peter Ibbetson.” In the first place she had not the slightest notion who Barrymore was and in the second place she had not the slightest idea of what he should be doing in “Peter Ibbetson” or any one else, and how he managed it. “Who’s Barrymore?” demanded Milly. “My dear woman! Is it possible you don’t know the Barrymores?”