“There won’t be any butter,” said Desirée, “So there’s one less temptation for you to grapple with.”
“Then I’ll be all right about the eatin’,” replied Conover. “Knife, soup, napkin, butter. Anything else?”
“Only about fifty more things,” answered Desirée, pessimistically. “Oh, I do wish I were to be there to coach you!”
“Want an invitation?” asked Caleb, eagerly.
“How silly! At the eleventh hour? Of course I don’t. I hardly know them. Besides I’m going to the musicale afterward. But I’m so afraid you’ll do something you ought not to. You won’t, will you?”
“Most likely I will,” confessed Caleb, ruefully. “But I bought a book to-day ’bout etiquette an’ I’m reading up a little. I’ve got one or two pointers already. Napkins are servy—serv—”
“Serviettes?” suggested Desirée. “But no one nowadays calls them—”
“An’ when you don’t want to get jagged, put your hand, ‘with a careless, debbynair movement,’” he quoted, “‘Over the top of whichever glass the serv’nt is offerin’ to fill.’ How’s that?” he ended with pride. “I’ll sit up with that measly book ev’ry night till Friday. By that time I’ll be—”
“You’ll be so tangled up you won’t know whether your soup-plate is for oysters or coffee,” she interrupted. “Now listen to me: I’m going to crowd into one inspired lecture all I can think of about dinner etiquette and other social chores, for you to use that evening. And when you go home, burn that book up.”
She forthwith launched upon a disquisition of such difficulties as lay before him on his debut as a diner, and how each might be bridged. After the first few sentences, Caleb’s attention strayed from her words to her voice. Its sweetness, its youth and a peculiar child-like quality in it always fascinated him. Now, with the added didactic touch, bred of the lesson she was seeking to teach, he found it altogether wonderful.