_They_ were not. _They_ were brought on, in a dingy cardboard box, marked with the name of the purveyor, and the legend: "Ice-cream saloon--Columbus Avenue." _They_ appeared on the edge of Sylvia's finger, balanced by a loop of tape. The cardboard box oozed and perspired. The lid was stuck down. Pink splashes dripped. "Anna says to tell you," giggled the wide-mouthed Sylvia, "that she got American ice-cream. The French is ten cents more, and there ain't no difference." This time Arthur Tamworth laughed without an apology. Probably he had a sense of humor, and thought it funny to see my poor little exquisitely attired wife, sitting at the head of her orchid-laden table, and confronted with a question of "ten cents more." That is exactly what a sense of humor achieves. Again, I protest that it is a curse. Mute sympathy would have been more endurable than loud mirth. Letitia left us while we smoked. She did not go to the drawing-room, but--as I learned afterward--retired to her bedroom to weep. When we joined her later, her eyes were red and swollen. She had lowered the lights, so that this fact should not be too glaringly evident. We sat and talked. I will do Arthur Tamworth the justice to say that he was quite unperturbed and made strenuous efforts to be entertaining. But the tone of our conversation suggested a house of mourning. Absolute failure had benumbed us into a sort of mental paralysis. I kept looking at the clock--longing for my guest to go. Letitia yawned persistently, although she made brave efforts to appear alert. But he stayed until eleven o'clock, and when he did go, remarked, with what I thought ill-timed irony, "I've had a delightful time." "Never--never have I felt so small," Letitia almost sobbed, as soon as we were alone. "And, Archie, I feel so ill, too. That brutal lobster--I _had_ to eat it, and it won't digest. Capped by the terrible beef-steak, it has nearly done for me." "Why did you eat it?" I asked querulously, "I didn't." "If a hostess can't eat her own food, who can?" she demanded furiously. "I would have eaten it, if ptomaine germs had arisen from it, and introduced themselves. I hope I know my duty, and I hope that I am not weak enough to shirk it. Mr. Tamworth ate a lot of it." "He'll die in the night," I suggested cheerfully, "and then good-by to my _Lives of Great Men_. It was not _homard naturel_. It was unnatural. That being the case, you might have refused it, Letitia. It would have been excusable." "We won't argue the matter, Archie," she retorted, "I have my own ideas of what is right. To place food before an inoffensive person--though I consider your partner was a trifle offensive--and then reject it yourself, is not quite etiquette." "Would you eat it again to-morrow, under the same circumstances?"