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As there was no parlor, guests were received in the curtained end of the gallery. No one was disposed to be formal, and when the old Professor entered with a little brown-paper parcel, which he declared, after his greetings, to contain his dinner, everybody felt that the etiquette of the occasion was not to be very strict or in the least embarrassing.

Of course Mrs. Frey, as hostess, “hoped the Professor would reconsider, and have a slice of the Christmas turkey”; but when they had presently all taken their seats at the table, and the eccentric guest had actually opened his roll of bread and cheese upon his empty plate, over which he began to pass savory dishes to his neighbors, she politely let him have his way. Indeed, there was nothing else to do, as he declared–declining the first course with a wave of his hand–that he had come “yust for de sake of sociapility.”

“I haf seen efery day doze children work und sing so nize togedder yust like leetle mans und ladies, so I come yust to eggsbress my t’anks for de compliment, und to make de acquaintance off doze nize y’ung neighbors.” This with a courtly bow to each one of the children separately. And he added in a moment: “De dinner iss very fine, but for me one dinner iss yust like anudder. Doze are all externals.”

To which measured and kindly speech Conrad could not help replying, “It won’t be an external to us, Professor, by the time we get through.”

“Oho!” exclaimed the old man, delighted with the boy’s ready wit. “Dot’s a wery schmart boy you got dhere, Mrs. Vrey.”

At this exhibition of broken English the twins, who were waiting on the table, thought it safe to rush to the kitchen on pretence of changing plates, while Dorothea, seated at the Professor’s left, found it necessary to bite both lips and to stare hard at the vinegar-cruet for fully a second to keep from laughing. Then, to make sure of her self-possession, she artfully changed the subject, remarking, dryly,

“My nickel buyed the ice.”

This was much funnier than the Professor’s speech, judging from the laughter that followed it. And Miss Dorothea Frey’s manners were saved, which was the important thing.

It would be impossible in this short space to give a full account of this novel and interesting dinner party, but if any one supposes that there was a dull moment in it, he is altogether mistaken.

Mrs. Frey and Ethel saw to it that no one was neglected in conversation; Meg and Conrad looked after the prompt replenishing of plates, though the alert little waiters, Felix and Felicie, anticipated every want, and were as sprightly as two crickets, while Dorothea provoked frequent laughter by a random fire of unexpected remarks, never failing, for instance, to offer ice-water during every “still minute”; and, indeed, once that young lady did a thing that might have proved quite terrible had the old lady Saxony, who sat opposite, been disagreeable or sensitive.

What Dorothea said was innocent enough–only a single word of two letters, to begin with.

She had been looking blankly at her opposite neighbor for a full minute, when she suddenly exclaimed,

“Oh!”

That was all, but it made everybody look, first at Dolly and then across the table. Whereupon the little maid, seeing her blunder, hastened to add:

“That’s nothin’. My grandma’s come out too.”

And then, of course, every one noticed that old lady Saxony held her dainty hemstitched handkerchief quite over her mouth. Fortunately Mrs. Saxony’s good sense was as great as her appreciation of humor, and, as she shook her finger threateningly at Dorothea, her twinkling eyes gave everybody leave to laugh. So “Dolly’s terrible break,” as Conrad called it, really went far to making the dinner a success–that is, if story-telling and laughter and the merry clamor such as distinguish the gayest of dinner parties the world over count as success.