"Don't eat any dinner!" I cried, in a whisper. "I am starv—"
"Hush," he whispered. "You said you weren't hungry."
Although we were only ten feet away from her and in plain view, Mary struck the Roman chime of bells, by which she always announces dinner.
As we took our seats the clock struck eight. The table was a dream of loveliness. Wedding-silver, wedding-glass, wedding-linen graced it at every turn, for Mary always decorates for us as for a banquet.
Never has the fragrant odour of soup assailed me as it did on that particular night. Mary hovered around, watching to see how we liked it. We tasted it, and laid our spoons down. We talked languidly, without noticing her.
"What's the matter with the soup?" she finally demanded when she could stand it no longer. We looked up as if surprised.
"Why, nothing," said Aubrey. "I don't care for it. That's all. Take it away."
"It will do nicely for to-morrow night," said Mary.
At that Aubrey dropped his entire cigarette into his and I put a spoonful of salt into mine.
"Isn't it good, Missis?" asked Mary of me.