“No, indeed,” answered Parmelee. “The fact is, I set that chair there for you half an hour ago.”
“For me?” inquired the visitor.
“Well, for the unexpected guest. You see, sir, the one chair looked so lonely. Have you room enough? Shall I move the desk out a bit? It’s awkward having no plates—or forks—or anything. If you will take this penknife, sir? And—wait a moment! The very thing!”
Parmelee excitedly seized two old blue plates from over the mantel, dusted them on a corner of the nearest bath-towel, and presented one to the guest.
“Queer I didn’t think of these, isn’t it? I think you’ll find that sliced chicken very fair. Do you eat olives? I’ve never tried cold Saratoga chips myself, but they look rather good.”
He proffered one article after another in a very fever of hospitality. In his eagerness he distributed the olives impartially over the whole board and brought the pièce de résistance, the pyramid of oranges, tumbling into ruins.
The guest laid down his pocket-knife and looked gravely across at his host.
“Is—is anything the matter?” faltered Parmelee.
“I must refuse to go on until I see you eating something.”
“Oh!” Parmelee blushed and seized a tin of potted turkey at random. After that the banquet progressed finely. The unexpected guest did full justice to the repast, and the unaccustomed host remembered his own hunger and satisfied it. More than that, he forgot his shyness and was radiantly happy. And after a while, when the last of the strawberries had disappeared, he suddenly found himself telling, in the most natural way in the world, things that he had never told any one before, except, perhaps, Philip Schuyler. He stopped short in the middle of a sentence in sudden embarrassment.