company were still drawing up their chairs. "Amen, soup, Mrs.
Richie?" she said, heartily. The ladling out of the soup was an
outlet for her energy; and as Harris's ideals put all the dishes
on the table at once, she was kept busy carving or helping, or,
with the hospitable insistence of her generation, urging her
guests to eat. Blair sat at the other end of the table in black
silence. Once he looked at Mrs. Richie with an agonized gratitude
in his beautiful eyes, like the gratitude of a hurt puppy lapping
a friendly and helping hand; for Mrs. Richie, with the gentlest
tact, tried to help him by ignoring him and talking to the young
people about her. Elizabeth, too, endeavored to do her part by
assuming (with furtive glances at David) a languid, young-lady-
like manner, which would have made Blair chuckle at any less
terrible moment. Even Mr. Ferguson, although still a little dazed
by that encounter with his niece, came to the rescue--for the
situation was, of course, patent--and talked to Mrs. Maitland;
which, poor Blair thought, "at least shut her up"!

Mrs. Maitland was, of course perfectly unconscious that any one
could wish to shut her up; she did not feel anything unusual in
the atmosphere, and she was astonishingly patient with all the
stuff and nonsense. Once she did strike the call-bell, which she
had bidden Harris to bring from the office table, and say,
loudly: "Make haste, Harris! Make haste! What is all this delay?"
The delay was Harris's agitated endeavor to refresh his memory
about "them basins."

"Is it _now_?" he whispered to Blair, furtively rubbing his
thumb on the shiny seam of his trousers. Blair, looking a little
sick, whispered back: