e kitchen was filled with delightful
odours. The spirits of everyone seemed to rise at a bound.

"Good-evening to ye, Tony," said Mary Ellen, and then she turned to our new
friend.

"I don't know how you call yourself, sir," she said, bluntly.

"You may call me Harry, if you will," he replied, after a slight
hesitation.

Mary Ellen, with a keen look at him, said, "Won't you sit down, sir? The
victuals will be on the table in the dining-room directly. Mr. Watlin,
would ye mind givin' me a hand with them dish-covers?"

Mr. Watlin assisted Mary Ellen deftly, and with an air of proprietorship.
He was a stout young man with a blond pompadour, and a smooth-shaven ruddy
face. As soon as an opportunity offered, I asked him whether he had brought
his fiddle. He smiled enigmatically.

"You shall see wot you shall see, and 'ear wot you shall 'ear," he replied.

In time the great tureen (Mrs. Handsomebody's silver plated one) was on the
table and the guests were bidden to "sit in." Mary Ellen, full of dignity,
seated herself in Mrs. Handsomebody's place behind the coffee urn, while
Mr. Watlin drew forward the heavy armchair, which since the demise of Mr.
Handsomebody, had been occupied by no one save the Unitarian minister when
he took tea with us. Angel and The Seraph and I were ranged on one side of
the table, and Tony and Harry on the other. Anita sat on the chair behind
Tony, and every now and again she would push her head under his arm and
peer shyly over the table, or reach with a thin little claw toward a morsel
of food he was raising to his mouth.

It would be impossible to conceive of seven people with finer appetites, or
of a hostess more determined that her guests should do themselves injury
from over-eating. Although two of our company were unexpected, there was
more than enough for every one. The oysters were followed by a Bedfordshire
pudding, potatoes, cold ham, celery, several sorts of pastry, oranges and
coffee. It was when we reached the lighter portion of the feast that
tongues were unloosed, and conviviality bloomed like an exotic flower in
Mrs. Handsomebody's dining-room.

Mary Ellen placed a plateful of scraps on the floor before Anita.

She said, "That ought to stand to her, pore thing! She do be awful ganted."

"These 'ere fancies is wot tikes me," said Mr. Watlin, helping himself to
his third lemon turnover. "Sub-stantial food is all right. I shouldn't care
to do without meat and the like, but it