"Not in the least, if you don't think she will spoil the fun." "I am sure she won't. Then there's your brother Roger." "Of course. Who more?" "I think that will do. There will be six of us then,--quite a large enough party for our little dining-room." "Why shouldn't we dine here? It wouldn't be so hot, and we should have more room." I liked the idea. The night before, Percivale arranged every thing, so that not only his paintings, of which he had far too many, and which were huddled about the room, but all his _properties_ as well, should be accessory to a picturesque effect. And when the table was covered with the glass and plate,--of which latter my mother had taken care I should not be destitute,--and adorned with the flowers which Roger brought me from Covent Garden, assisted by a few of our own, I thought the bird's-eye view from the top of Jacob's ladder a very pretty one indeed. Resolved that Percivale should have no cause of complaint as regarded the simplicity of my arrangements, I gave orders that our little Ethel, who at that time of the evening was always asleep, should be laid on the couch in my room off the study, with the door ajar, so that Sarah, who was now her nurse, might wait with an easy mind. The dinner was brought in by the outer door of the study, to avoid the awkwardness and possible disaster of the private precipice. The principal dish, a small sirloin of beef, was at the foot of the table, and a couple of boiled fowls, as I thought, before me. But when the covers were removed, to my surprise I found they were roasted. "What have you got there, Percivale?" I asked. "Isn't it sirloin?" "I'm not an adept in such matters," he replied. "I should say it was." My father gave a glance at the joint. Something seemed to be wrong. I rose and went to my husband's side. Powers of cuisine! Jemima had roasted the fowls, and boiled the sirloin. My exclamation was the signal for an outbreak of laughter, led by my father. I was trembling in the balance between mortification on my own account and sympathy with the evident amusement of my father and Mr. Blackstone. But the thought that Mr. Morley might have been and was not of the party came with such a pang and such a relief, that it settled the point, and I burst out laughing. "I dare say it's all right," said Roger. "Why shouldn't a sirloin be boiled as well as roasted? I venture to assert that it is all a whim, and we are on the verge of a new discovery to swell the number of those which already owe their being to blunders." "Let us all try a slice, then," said Mr. Blackstone, "and compare results." This was agreed to; and a solemn silence followed, during which each sought acquaintance with the new dish. "I am sorry to say," remarked my father, speaking first, "that Roger is all wrong, and we have only made the discovery that custom is right. It is plain enough why sirloin is always roasted." "I yield myself convinced," said Roger.