Mrs. Thompson. Yes, always, dear Uncle Sylvanus. How is everybody at home?
Mr. P. Oh, they’re all well; you seem to be having a party, nephew?
Mr. T. Only a few friends to dinner. Let me introduce you.
[He takes him on his arm and presents him to his guests. While this is being done, a sentimental, elderly young woman, with thin curls, after whispering impressively with her neighbor, glides up to the hostess, and holds a moment’s conversation with that lady. Mrs. Thompson turns pale, and seems engaged in a mental calculation. Then she starts quickly toward her husband and draws him aside]
Mrs. T. Sylvanus, do you know how many people there are in this room?
Mr. T. Oh, about a dozen, I suppose.
Mrs. T. About a dozen! There are thirteen, Sylvanus, thirteen!
Mr. T. Well, what of it?
Mrs. T. What of it! Why, we can’t sit down to dinner with thirteen at table. Maria Smith says she should have a fit.