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“Yes–no–that is–I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” stammered Paul.

There was a slight pout in her voice as she replied: “No matter now–we must follow them–for our host is moving off with Lady Billingtree, and it’s our turn now.”

So great was the illusion that he found himself mechanically offering his arm as he moved through the empty room towards the door. Then he descended the staircase without another word, preceded, however, by the sound of his host’s voice. Following this as a blind man might, he entered the dining-room, which to his discomfiture was as empty as the salon above. Still following the host’s voice, he dropped into a chair before the empty table, wondering what variation of the Barmecide feast was in store for him. Yet the hum of voices from the vacant chairs around the board so strongly impressed him that he could almost believe that he was actually at dinner.

“Are you seated?” asked the charming voice at his side.

“Yes,” a little wonderingly, as his was the only seat visibly occupied.

“I am so glad that this silly ceremony is over. By the way, where are you?”

Paul would have liked to answer, “Lord only knows!” but he reflected that it might not sound polite. “Where am I?” he feebly repeated.

“Yes; where are you dining?”

It seemed a cool question under the circumstances, but he answered promptly,–

“With you.”

“Of course,” said the charming voice; “but where are you eating your dinner?”

Considering that he was not eating anything, Paul thought this cooler still. But he answered briefly, “In Upshire.”

“Oh! At your uncle’s?”

“No,” said Paul bluntly; “in the next house.”

“Why, that’s Sir William’s–our host’s–and he and his family are here in London. You are joking.”

“Listen!” said Paul desperately. Then in a voice unconsciously lowered he hurriedly told her where he was–how he came there–the empty house–the viewless company! To his surprise the only response was a musical little laugh. But the next moment her voice rose higher with an unmistakable concern in it, apparently addressing their invisible host.

“Oh, Sir William, only think how dreadful. Here’s poor Mr. Bunker, alone in an empty house, which he has mistaken for his uncle’s–and without any dinner!”

“Really; dear, dear! How provoking! But how does he happen to be WITH US? James, how is this?”

“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.”