“It really isn’t worth saying,” Captain Patch truthfully remarked. “I was only going to ask if anyone had seen the eclipse yesterday. There was supposed to be an eclipse, I believe.”
No one seemed to have known or cared about this phenomenon, and after it had been briefly dismissed from life, there was another silence.
“How is Mr. Carey?”
“He’s had some quite good days, lately, and he’s really wonderful, considering.”
“Hullo, a moth!”
“How still it is, to-night, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Harter, do you sing a great deal?”
It was all very disconnected, and spasmodic and embarrassing. Mrs. Fazackerly felt that never would these six people unite in singing “My old Kentucky Home” and “Swanee River” as she had intended them to do. The presence of Mrs. Harter, and her ungracious self-consciousness, were making havoc of the party.
It was red-headed Captain Patch who saved the situation. He boldly went over to the piano and threw it open.
“Mrs. Harter, we’ve wanted to hear ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’ again ever since the concert. May we all join in the chorus?”