Miss S. That will undoubtedly come later, when we know you better.
Mr. P. I am glad you found somebody, nephew; for I must say I never would have given up my dinner for a foolish superstition; and as I came last and uninvited—
Mrs. T. (relieved of her fears and remembering the will) You are always invited to this house, Uncle Potts; and we would never hear of your going away.
Mr. Robinson. Well, it is all very well to call it a superstition, you know; but I knew—
[Mr. Robinson proceeds to narrate a grewsome and melancholy tale, in which disaster and death resulted from the imprudence of sitting down with thirteen at table; half a dozen other guests begin simultaneously the relation of six more equally or even more grewsome and melancholy tales upon the same subject, when they are interrupted by the arrival of a note for Mr. Robinson.]
Mr. R. My dear Mrs. Thompson, I am so sorry, but my brother has telegraphed for me to come to him at once on a matter of the utmost importance. I regret—
Mrs. T. But Mr. Robinson, don’t you see that—
Servant. Dinner is served.
Mr. T. May I have the honor, Mrs. Brown?
Miss S. But we can’t go to dinner now. Mr. Robinson is called away, and that leaves us thirteen again.