"Do have another, Mr. Carson."
He did; for he was in a desperate mood. He was to leave for the city on the early morning train, and this evening would be his last chance to propose to Polly for several months. Somehow, despite his best efforts, the psychological moment had never arrived.
Just then Polly sailed into the room, fresh and rosy, in a flutter of white muslin. He put down the glass and hurried over to her.
"Good evening, Polly," he said in an ardent undertone. "Couldn't you slip away from this crowd and take a stroll on the beach?"
"No, George; I'm hostess tonight." She shook her head, including some airy little curls, which seemed to make light of her refusal. "We are all to gather around the hearth and listen to the stories." Then she added teasingly, "Besides, it is in your honor that mother is giving this party."
"Yes; she's very kind, I'm sure," he said awkwardly.
"Think of all the trouble she has taken over that log!"
Carson faced her with squared jaw.
"Listen to me, Polly. There is something serious I want to talk to you about. Before I leave you, I—"
"Polly," called Mrs. Whoffin, "isn't it time to begin?"