We’d been going out a good deal, pretty nearly every night, and we were glad to have, for once, a quiet evening at home. Of course, that doesn’t mean the same as it does in Necropolis City or even Chicago. We dine, just the same, at half-past eight, and both of us dress for dinner. We have to, Daisy says, no matter how we feel, because of the servants. The servants in London are good servants all right, but the way you have to avoid shocking their sensitive feelings sometimes makes a free-born American rebellious. I like to think I’m an object of interest to my fellow creatures, but it’s a good deal of a bother to have it on your mind that you mustn’t destroy the illusions of the butler or upset the ideals of the cook.
As we were waiting for dinner to be announced we heard a cab rattle up and stop, as it seemed, at our door. We looked at each other with inquiring eyes, and then heard the cab go off—on the full jump, I should say, by the noise it made—and a minute later the bell rang sharp and quick. Perkins opened the door, and Daisy and I heard a lady’s voice, very sweet and sort of drawling, say something in the vestibule. I peeped through the curtains, and there were a man and a woman—a distinguished-looking pair—taking off their coats and primping themselves up at the hall mirror. I’d never seen either of them before, as far as I could remember, but I could tell by their general make-up that they were the real thing—the kind Daisy was always cultivating and asking to dinner.
I stepped back, and said to her, in a whisper:
“Somebody’s come to dinner, and you’ve forgotten all about it.”
She shook her head, and whispered back:
“I haven’t asked any one to dinner; I’m sure I haven’t.”
“Well, they’re here, whether we’ve asked them or not,” I hissed, “and you can’t turn ’em out. They expect to be fed.”
“Who are they?”
“Search me! Friends of yours I’ve never seen.”
“For pity’s sake, don’t look surprised! Try and pretend it’s all right.”