The hostess, then, with a certain righteous complacence, lowered her eyes to her cocktail glass.
Oh, heavens!
It was the first time, so carried away had she been with this new, intoxicating feeling, that she had really noticed what she was eating—how she was eating it.
She was eating her oysters with her after-dinner coffee spoon!
The tiny-pronged oyster fork was lying there on the cloth, untouched!
Oh, good heavens!
An icy chill of mortification crept down her spine, spread out through her whole being. She had made a mistake—SHE, the hostess!
A whirlwind of mortal shame stormed round and round within her. If only she could faint dead away in her chair! If only she could weep, and summon mother! Or die! Or even if she could sink down under the table and hide away from sight. But she didn't know how to faint; and hostesses do not weep for their mothers; and, in real life, people never die at the crucial moments; nor do they crawl under tables. All she could do was to force herself at last, to raise her stricken eyelids and furtively regard her guests.
Oh, dear heaven!
They were all—ALL of them—eating their oyster cocktails with their after-dinner coffee spoons!