"I had some battle with the tie," says I. "Ain't the bow lopsided?"
"A mere trifle," says he. "Allow me. There! Really, I'm quite proud of you. Aunty'll be pleased too; for, while she dresses very plainly herself, she likes this sort of thing. You'll see."
I didn't notice any wild enthusiasm on Aunty's part, though, when she shows up. A lean, wiry old girl, Aunty is, with her white hair bobbed up careless and a big shell comb stickin' up bristly, like a picket fence, on top. There's nothin' soft about her chin, or the square-cut mouth, and after she'd give me one glance out of them shrewd, squinty eyes I felt like she'd taken my number,—pedigree, past performances, and cost mark complete.
"Howdo, young man?" says she, and with out wastin' any more breath on me she pikes out to the front door to scout down the drive for the other guests.
They arrives on the tick of six-forty-five, and inside of three minutes Aunty has shooed us into the dinin' room. And, say, the first good look I had at Pansy and Violet I nearly passed away. "Rather large," Merry had described 'em. Yes, and then some! They wa'n't just ordinary fat women; they was a pair of whales,—big all over, tall and wide and hefty. They had their weight pretty well placed at that; not lumpy or bulgy, you know, but with them expanses of shoulder, and their big, heavy faces—well, the picture of slim, narrow-chested Merry Stidler sittin' wedged in between the two, like the ham in a lunch counter sandwich, was most too much for me. I swallows a drink of water and chokes over it.
I expect Merry caught on too. I'd never seen him so fussed before. He's makin' a brave stab at bein' chatty; but I can tell he's doin' it all on his nerve. He glances first to the right, and then turns quick to the left; but on both sides he's hemmed in by them two human mountains.
They wa'n't such bad lookers, either. They has good complexions, kind of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf'table ways. But there was so much of 'em! Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath, expectin' to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through a rollin' machine.
Nothin' tragic like that happens, though. They don't even crowd him into the soup. But it's an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and the Hibbs sisters doin' a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and Aunty holds down the side lines. And nothin' that's said or done gets away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me!
Looked like something wa'n't goin' just like she'd planned; for the glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin', he sees James uncorkin' a bottle of fizz. Merry almost drops his fork and gawps at Aunty sort of dazed.
"Meredith," says she, snappy, "go on with your carving! Young man, I suppose you don't take wine?"