Supper had reached the fruit and chocolate stage when Jessie Thomson brought Stewart Stevenson and introduced him to Elizabeth Seton. "I wanted to tell you how much I liked your song," he began. "How kind of you!" said Elizabeth. "I think myself it's a nice song." "I don't know anything about music," continued Mr. Stevenson. "Was that why you said you liked my song instead of my singing?" "Yes," he said; and they both laughed. They were deep in the subject of Scots ballads when Mr. Inverarity came along with dates on a majolica dish in one hand, his other hand behind his back. "A little historical matter," he said, offering the dates. "No? Then," he produced a silver dish with the air of a conjurer, "a chocolate?" Elizabeth chose deliberately. "I'm looking for the biggest," she said. "You see I'm greedy." "Not at all," said Mr. Inverarity. "Sweets to the sweet;" and he passed on his jokesome way. "Sweets to the sweet," repeated Elizabeth. "Isn't it funny? Words that were dropped with violets over the drowned Ophelia now furnish witticisms for suburban young men." "Miss Seton," said Mrs. Thomson, bustling up, "you're here. We're going back to the drawing-room now to have a little more music." She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. "Papa's asked Mr. Taylor to sing. Jessie'll be awful ill-pleased, but he's an old friend." "Does he want to sing?" asked Elizabeth. "Dyin' to," said Mrs. Thomson. Back to the drawing-room flocked the company, and Mr. Taylor, to use his own words, "took the floor." Jessie was standing beside the Simpsons and saw him do it. "What a funny little man that is!" said Miss Simpson languidly. "What's he going to do now?" "The dear knows," said Jessie bitterly. They were not left long in doubt. Mr. Taylor struck an attitude. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I have been asked to favour you with a song, but with your kind permission I'll give you first a readin'." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a newspaper cutting. "It's a little bit I read in the papers," he explained, "very comical." The "little bit" from the newspapers was in what is known in certain circles as "guid auld Doric," and it seemed to be about a feather-bed and a lodger, but so amused was Mr. Taylor at the joke he had last made, and so convulsed was he at one he saw coming, that very little was heard except his sounds of mirth. Laughter is infectious, especially after supper, and the whole room rocked with Mr. Taylor. Only Jessie sat glum, and the Simpsons smiled but wanly. Greatly encouraged by the success of his reading, Mr. Taylor proceeded with his song, a rollicking ditty entitled "Miss Hooligan's Christmas Cake." It was his one song, his only song. It told, at length, the ingredients of the cake and its effect on Tim Mooney, who "lay down on the sofa And said that he wished he was dead." The last two lines of the chorus ran: