"Would you really like it?" Albert's uncle asked. "I'm afraid they'll be but dull dogs, the Antiquities, stuffy old gentlemen with amphoræ in their button-holes instead of orchids, and pedigrees poking out of all their pockets."
We laughed—because we knew what an amphoræ is. If you don't you might look it up in the dicker. It's not a flower, though it sounds like one out of the gardening book, the kind you never hear of any one growing.
Dora said she thought it would be splendid.
"And we could have out the best china," she said, "and decorate the table with flowers. We could have tea in the garden. We've never had a party since we've been here."
"I warn you that your guests may be boresome; however, have it your own way," Albert's uncle said; and he went off to write the invitation to tea to the Maidstone Antiquities. I know that is the wrong word—but somehow we all used it whenever we spoke of them, which was often.
In a day or two Albert's uncle came in to tea with a lightly clouded brow.
"You've let me in for a nice thing," he said. "I asked the Antiquities to tea, and I asked casually how many we might expect. I thought we might need at least the full dozen of the best teacups. Now the secretary writes accepting my kind invitation—"
"Oh, good!" we cried. "And how many are coming?"
"Oh, only about sixty," was the groaning rejoinder. "Perhaps more, should the weather be exceptionally favorable."
Though stunned at first, we presently decided that we were pleased. We had never, never given such a big party.