“Phebe’s really a very good girl in her way though,” remarked Mrs. Hardcastle, indulgently, from her easy chair.  “I will testify that she can make quite eatable cake at a pinch.”

Phebe secretly thought Mrs. Hardcastle ought to know.  She remembered her once spoiling a new-made company loaf by slashing into it without so much as a by-your-leave.

“That was very nice cake Miss Lynch gave us last night,” piped in Miss Delano.

“Too much citron,” pronounced Mrs. Upjohn, decisively.  “You should never overload your cake with citron.  It turns it out heavy, as sure as there’s a sun in the heavens.”

“There isn’t any to-day; it’s cloudy,” Phebe could not help putting in, demurely, but no one paid any attention, except that Mrs. Upjohn turned on her an unworded expression of:  “If I say so, it is so whether or no.”

An animated debate on cake followed, in the middle of which Mrs. Lane reappeared with a trayful of cookies hot from the oven; and two more callers came in, Bell Masters and Dick Hardcastle, which last first woke up Miss Lydia with a boisterous kiss, frightening the poor soul half to death by assuring her she had been snoring so that he heard her way down street, and then devoted himself to the cookies with a good-will and large capacity that filled one with compassionate feelings toward his mother’s larder.  With these new and younger elements the talk varied a little.  They discussed last night’s party, the supper, the dresses, the people, and then the probabilities of to-night’s party, the people, the dresses, the supper.  And then Dick made a sensation by saying right out, that he had just met Mr. Upjohn on Main Street with Mrs. Bruce, holding a parasol gallantly over her head.  And everybody looked at once at Mrs. Upjohn, and then back at the graceless Dick, and an awful silence succeeded, broken by Mrs. Upjohn’s reaching out her hand and saying in the tone of a Miss Cushman on the stage:  “Dick, dear, I’ll take another cookie.”  If Mr. Upjohn chose to walk down town shielding women’s complexions for them, why in the world should she trouble herself about it, beyond making sure that he did not by mistake take her parasol for the kindly office?  And so the talk went on, people coming and people going, and Mrs. Lane did up a whole basketful of work undisturbed, and Phebe inwardly chafed and fumed and longed for dinner-time, that at last the ceaseless, aimless chatter might come to an end.

She went to the party that night, because in Joppa everybody had to go when asked.  To refuse was considered tantamount to an open declaration of war, unless in case of illness, and then it almost required a doctor’s certificate to get one off.  It was a good law and ensured the suppers being disposed of.  There was no dancing to-night, it being an understood thing that when Mrs. Upjohn was asked there should be none or she would not come; but there was music.  Bell Masters had a very nice contralto