It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have been otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy at the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, the Strata would have the “dearest little mistress that ever was born.” As if, under these circumstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of course, that the dinner was a good one.
“And now,” said Cyril, when dinner was over, “suppose you come up and see the rug.”
In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah—Cyril's rooms were always cool.
“Oh, yes, I knew we should need it,” she nodded to Bertram, as she picked up the shawl from the hall stand where she had left it when she came in. “That's why I brought it.”
“Oh, my grief and conscience, Cyril, how can you stand it?—to climb stairs like this,” panted Aunt Hannah, as she reached the top of the last flight and dropped breathlessly into the nearest chair—from which Marie had rescued a curtain just in time.
“Well, I'm not sure I could—if I were always to eat a Thanksgiving dinner just before,” laughed Cyril. “Maybe I ought to have waited and let you rest an hour or two.”
“But 'twould have been too dark, then, to see the rug,” objected Marie. “It's a genuine Persian—a Kirman, you know; and I'm so proud of it,” she added, turning to the others. “I wanted you to see the colors by daylight. Cyril likes it better, anyhow, in the daytime.”
“Fancy Cyril liking any sort of a rug at any time,” chuckled Bertram, his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before him. “Honestly, Miss Marie,” he added, turning to the little bride elect, “how did you ever manage to get him to buy any rug? He won't have so much as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on.”
A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes.
“Why, I thought he wanted rugs,” she faltered. “I'm sure he said—”