In a few moments dinner was announced, and shortly after all were seated, and in memory of old times the guests naturally waited for the Idiot to begin.
"Do you know," he said, as he squeezed the juice from a luscious lemon over an unprotesting oyster, at the same time glancing affectionately over the company, "I haven't felt so much at home for years as I do now."
"Not very complimentary to your wife," said Mr. Brief.
"Oh, I know what he means," observed Mrs. Idiot.
"And I have so many other opportunities to compliment her," said the Idiot.
"But really, Mrs. Pedagog," he added, addressing the good lady who sat at his right, "I feel absolutely contented to-night. All the good things of the past and of the present seem to be concentrated about this board—except the three up-stairs, who can't very well be here."
"Three?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "I thought there were only two—"
"Certainly," said the Idiot. "Tommy and Mollie, but there is Mary, your old housemaid. We can't very well ask them to dine with us, you know."
"I don't see why Tommy and Mollie can't be invited," said Mr. Pedagog, much to the Idiot's surprise, it seemed so like a violation of his system, as it might be presumed to be.
"You believe in having children at table, then, Mr. Pedagog?" asked Mrs. Idiot.