Fortunately, before Mr Waller had time to ask any further questions,
the supper-bell sounded, and they went into the dining-room.

Sunday supper, unless done on a large and informal scale, is probably
the most depressing meal in existence. There is a chill discomfort in
the round of beef, an icy severity about the open jam tart. The
blancmange shivers miserably.

Spirituous liquor helps to counteract the influence of these things,
and so does exhilarating conversation. Unfortunately, at Mr Waller's
table there was neither. The cashier's views on temperance were not
merely for the platform; they extended to the home. And the company was
not of the exhilarating sort. Besides Psmith and Mike and their host,
there were four people present--Comrade Prebble, the orator; a young
man of the name of Richards; Mr Waller's niece, answering to the name
of Ada, who was engaged to Mr Richards; and Edward.

Edward was Mr Waller's son. He was ten years old, wore a very tight
Eton suit, and had the peculiarly loathsome expression which a snub
nose sometimes gives to the young.

It would have been plain to the most casual observer that Mr Waller was
fond and proud of his son. The cashier was a widower, and after five
minutes' acquaintance with Edward, Mike felt strongly that Mrs Waller
was the lucky one. Edward sat next to Mike, and showed a tendency to
concentrate his conversation on him. Psmith, at the opposite end of the
table, beamed in a fatherly manner upon the pair through his eyeglass.

Mike got on with small girls reasonably well. He preferred them at a