"'The Sulphurs,'" read a second, picking up the menu card which Bee had carefully written for each plate. "Gentlemen, I am afraid that we are in for it."
"Miss Raymond intends for us to eat our own words—no; that is not exactly what I mean, although some of us have written upon the subject of Lepidoptera," said the third one, a small man in spectacles.
Beatrice could not repress a little laugh at the look of relief that flashed across each man's face as Tillie, the "likely gal" of whom Aunt Fanny had spoken, appeared with "The Sulphurs" which proved to be yellow cantaloupes, ice cold.
"After all you are not the first martyrs to science," she told them merrily. "Luther had to partake of a diet of worms, I believe."
"So he did," observed the scientist on her right. "Let me see. How does the rhyme go?
"'Instead of butter on his bread
A sauce of butterflies was spread.'
"Are we to have that next? I see what is in store for us. 'All life is from an egg,'" reading aloud from the menu. "That sounds interesting."
With an eagerness that was almost boyish they awaited Tillie's coming with the next course which developed into egg soup accompanied by hot wafers. A laugh of pure enjoyment went up as Scale insects with chrysalids and some green hair streaks was seen to be baked fish with shrimp salad, dressed with cucumbers.
An entree—"Scarce clouded yellows," mushrooms on toast—was provocative of so much merriment that Bee gave herself up to the fun, assured that the dinner was a success. Stiffness could not exist under such conditions, and the grave scientists unbent from their dignity, and jested and made merry like a lot of school-boys. There was admiration in the look that Doctor Raymond bestowed upon his daughter as course followed course, each bearing the name of a certain species of butterfly, evolved from a resemblance of color or form to the viands. The dessert, "The Arctics with Boisduval Marble," was ice cream frozen in butterfly moulds and marble cake; while "Wooded Nymphs" were salted almonds.
"Gentlemen," said one, rising as the last course—'The Mourning Cloak' which meant black coffee—was served, "let us toast our hostess. This has been one of the most ingenious as well as one of the most enjoyable dinners I ever attended. It has the merit of originality, and puts to blush the efforts of older but not wiser ladies. Doctor Raymond, I congratulate you upon your daughter. You should be proud of her, sir."