“If you please, Sir William,” said a servant's respectful voice, “Widdlestone is in the circuit and is switched on with the others. We heard that a gentleman's luggage had arrived at Widdlestone, and we telegraphed for the rooms to be made ready, thinking we'd have her ladyship's orders later.” A single gleam of intelligence flashed upon Paul. His luggage--yes, had been sent from the station to the wrong house, and he had unwittingly followed. But these voices! whence did they come? And where was the actual dinner at which his host was presiding? It clearly was not at this empty table. “See that he has everything he wants at once,” said Sir William; “there must be some one there.” Then his voice turned in the direction of Paul again, and he said laughingly, “Possess your soul and appetite in patience for a moment, Mr. Bunker; you will be only a course behind us. But we are lucky in having your company--even at your own discomfort.” Still more bewildered, Paul turned to his invisible partner. “May I ask where YOU are dining?” “Certainly; at home in Curzon Street,” returned the pretty voice. “It was raining so, I did not go out.” “And--Lord Billington?” faltered Paul. “Oh, he's in Scotland--at his own place.” “Then, in fact, nobody is dining here at all,” said Paul desperately. There was a slight pause, and then the voice responded, with a touch of startled suggestion in it: “Good heavens, Mr. Bunker! Is it possible you don't know we're dining by telephone?” “By what?” “Telephone. Yes. We're a telephonic dinner-party. We are dining in our own houses; but, being all friends, we're switched on to each other, and converse exactly as we would at table. It saves a great trouble and expense, for any one of us can give the party, and the poorest can equal the most extravagant. People who are obliged to diet can partake of their own slops at home, and yet mingle with the gourmets without awkwardness or the necessity of apology. We are spared the spectacle, at least, of those who eat and drink too much. We can switch off a bore at once. We can retire when we are fatigued, without leaving a blank space before the others. And all this without saying anything of the higher spiritual and intellectual effect--freed from material grossness of appetite and show--which the dinner party thus attains. But you are surely joking! You, an American, and not know it! Why, it comes from Boston. Haven't you read that book, 'Jumping a Century'? It's by an American.”