front parlour, where the flickering fire-light threw strange
shadows on the highly coloured wall-paper, while without, in the
wild street, the storm raged pitilessly, and the wind, like some
unquiet spirit, flew, moaning, across the square, and passed,
wailing with a troubled cry, round by the milk-shop.

We had had supper, and were sitting round, talking and smoking.

We had had a very good supper--a very good supper, indeed.
Unpleasantness has occurred since, in our family, in connection
with this party. Rumours have been put about in our family,
concerning the matter generally, but more particularly concerning
my own share in it, and remarks have been passed which have not so
much surprised me, because I know what our family are, but which
have pained me very much. As for my Aunt Maria, I do not know when
I shall care to see her again. I should have thought Aunt Maria
might have known me better.

But although injustice--gross injustice, as I shall explain later
on--has been done to myself, that shall not deter me from doing
justice to others; even to those who have made unfeeling
insinuations. I will do justice to Aunt Maria's hot veal pasties,
and toasted lobsters, followed by her own special make of
cheesecakes, warm (there is no sense, to my thinking, in cold
cheesecakes; you lose half the flavour), and washed down by Uncle
John's own particular old ale, and acknowledge that they were most
tasty. I did justice to them then; Aunt Maria herself could not
but admit that.

After supper, Uncle brewed some whisky-punch. I did justice to