"And all are welcome," continued Reuben Thorne.
"And all are welcome," continued Mr. Weston mechanically. The words seemed to be forced from him.
"Whether the proposition," said Reuben Thorne, "to meet once in every year, as we did for many years--each more or less according to the tenor of his life--was or was not a wise one, it was accepted by all without demur. Let us, then, now that we have met once again, banish all ideas of strangeness from our minds; let us be cordial and friendly to one another, as we once were. This meeting will be the last. Let us be merry; and let only those be sad who have no regrets."
"Were that really exemplified in life," said Rachel Holmes, "there would be less sorrow in it."
"Somewhat of a philosophical paradox, that," observed the landlord of the Silver Flagon.
The circumstance of Mr. Rowe taking part in the conversation brought relief to Mr. Weston. The scene in which he was playing a part appeared to be less unreal, and he was less startled by the voice of Michael Lee, the doorkeeper, who announced, in quick succession:
"James Blanchard. Thomas Chatterton. Ephraim Goldberg."
Mr. Weston, white and trembling, rose and bowed to them as they entered.
"There are eight of us now," said Reuben Thorne, in a cheerful tone; "but five more remain. I remember well the occasion and the motive that first brought us together."
Another guest joined the party in the midst of the speech.