en plates stacked in a pile, which
she proceeds to deal around the table. You at least know that to try to
interfere would only make matters worse. You hold your own cold fingers in
your lap knowing that you must sit there, and that you can do nothing.

The fish which was to have been a _mousse_ with Hollandaise sauce, is a
huge mound, much too big for the platter, with a narrow gutter of water
around the edge and the center dabbed over with a curdled yellow mess. You
realize that not only is the food itself awful, but that the quantity is
too great for one dish. You don't know what to do next; you know there is
no use in apologizing, there is no way of dropping through the floor, or
waking yourself up. You have collected the smartest and the most critical
people around your table to put them to torture such as they will never
forget. Never! You have to bite your lips to keep from crying. Whatever
possessed you to ask these people to your horrible house?

Mr. Kindhart, sitting next to you, says gently, "Cheer up, little girl, it
doesn't really matter!" And then you know to the full how terrible the
situation is. The meal is endless; each course is equally unappetizing to
look at, and abominably served. You notice that none of your guests eat
anything. They can't.

You leave the table literally sick, but realizing fully that the giving of
a dinner is not as easy as you thought. And in the drawing-room, which is
now fireless and freezing, but at least smokeless, you start to apologize
and burst into tears!

As you are very young, and those present are all really fond of you, they
try to be comforting, but you know that it will be years (if ever) before
any of them will be willing to risk an evening in your house again. You
also know that without malice, but in truth and frankness, they will tell
everyone: "Whatever you do, don't dine with the Newweds unless you eat
your dinner before you go, and wear black glasses so no sight can offend
you."

When they have all gone, you drag yourself miserably up-stairs, feeling
that you never want to look in that drawing-room or dining-room again.
Your husband, remembering the trenches, tries to tell you it was not so
bad! But you _know!_ You lie awake planning to let the house, and to
discharge each one of your awful household the next morning, and then you
realize that the fault is not a bit more theirs than yours.

If you had tried the chimney first, and learned its peculiariti