Bob looked as puzzled as the rest, for a moment. Then his face fell, and he flushed to the roots of his hair.
“I—I—must have—forgot”—he stammered.
“Forgotten what?”
“The invitations—they’re in my desk now!”
Thus Bob, with utterly despairing tone and self-abasement.
Mrs. Hartwell’s silvery little laugh rang out—it was as near moonlight playing on the upper keys of an organ as anything you can imagine—and grasped Mrs. Brownlow’s hand.
“You poor dear!” she cried, kissing her hostess, who stood speechless, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, “so that’s why nobody came! But who has cluttered—who has been having such a good time here, then?”
Mr. Brownlow silently led the last two arrivals to the door of the next room, and pointed in. It was now the kind deacon’s turn to be touched.
“‘Into the highways’!” he murmured, as he looked upon the unwashed, hungry little circle about the table.