eren't quite
dressed for a party; they were shy of silken youth. Mrs. Tubbs's
daughter was conscious of the fact that her $1.98 wash-dress, shapeless
from many washings, was soiled in front. But Uncle Joe, the old
hardshell, was never abashed at anything. He shifted his tobacco quid
and "guessed he'd have to get some white pants like that young
red-headed fellow's."

Then Father again proved himself magnificent. Wasn't he a New-Yorker?
"No flossy tea-room and no bunch of young fellows in ice-cream
breeches--probably they were only clerks, anyway, if the truth was
known!--was going to scare your Uncle Dudley offn tea! Not that he cared
so much for tea itself; 'drather have a good cup of coffee, any time;
but he didn't want Joe Tubbs to think he wasn't used to fashionable
folks." So, with a manner of wearing goggles and gauntlets, he led the
women and the shambling son-in-law and the brazenly sloppy Uncle Joe
through the flowery youth and into the raftered room, with its new
fireplace and old William and Mary chairs, its highboy covered with
brassware, and its little tea-tables with slender handicraft vases each
containing one marigold. Father ignored all these elegances and
commanded a disdainful waitress with a frilly white apron, "Let's have a
couple of tables together here, eh?" He himself shifted chairs, and made
a joke, and started to select impressive food.

He was used to New York restaurants, and to quite expensive hotels, for
at least once a year, on his birthday, Mr. Pilkings took him to lunch at
the Waldorf. While he had apparently been devoting himself to arranging
the tables his cunning old brain had determined to order tea and French
pastry. Apparently the Tea Shoppe was neutral. There was no French
pastry on the bill, but, instead, such curious edibles as cinnamon
toast, cream cheese, walnut sandwiches, Martha Washington muffins. Nor
was the tea problem so easy as it had seemed. To Father there were only
two kinds of tea--the kind you got for a nickel at the Automat, and the
kind that Mother privately consumed. But here he had to choose
intelligently among orange pekoe, oolong, Ceylon, and English-breakfast
teas.

Father did a very brave thing, though he probably will never get the
Carnegie medal for it. Instead of timidly asking the lofty waitress's
advice, he boldly plunged in and ordered two kinds of sandwiches,
cinnamon toast, and, because he liked the name, orange pekoe. He rather
held his breath,