“You’re one thing, my sweet pink friend,” said Clover gently, “but Aunt Mary’s another.  I’m not saying that New York has not had a wonderfully Brown-Sequardesque effect on her, but I am saying that if she is to be raised and lowered frequently, I want to travel with a portable crane.”

“Hum, hum, hum!” cried Jack.  “May I just ask who did most of the heavy labor of Aunt Mary yesterday?—­As the man in the opera sings twenty times with the whole chorus to back him—­’’Twas I, ’twas I, ’twas I, ‘twas I—­’”

“Hand over the toast, Clover,” said Burnett.  “I don’t care who it was—­it was a success anyhow, for she’s upstairs and still alive, and I say she’d enjoy coaching out Riverside way, and—­” he choked.

“Slap him anywhere,” said Mitchell.  “On his mouth would be the proper place.  Such poor manners,—­coming down to a company lunch in another man’s bath-robe and then trying to preach and eat dry toast at once.”

Burnett gasped and recovered.

“There,” said Clover, who had risen to administer the proposed slap, “he’s off our minds and we may again pick up Aunt Mary and put her back on.”

“We want to send her home in a blaze of glory,” said Jack thoughtfully.  “I want her to feel that the fun ran straight through.”

“That’s just what I mean,” interposed his particular friend; “we want her to go home on the wings of a giant cracker, so to speak.”

“How would it do,” said Clover suddenly, “to just make a night of it and take her along?  Stock up, stack up, and ho! for it.  You all know the kind of a time I mean.”

“Clover,” said Jack gravely, “does it occur to you that Aunt Mary belongs to me and that I have a personal interest in keeping her alive?”

“Nothing ever occurs to him,” said Mitchell.  “Occasionally an idea bangs up against him inadvertently, and as it splinters a sliver or two penetrate his head—­that’s all.”

“I don’t see why the last sliver he felt wasn’t to the point,” said Burnett, turning the cream jug upside down as he spoke.  “I think she’d enjoy it of all things.  She enjoys everything so.  I’ll guarantee that when she gets back home she’ll even enjoy the yachting trip.  Lots of people are made like that.  In the winter I always enjoy yachting, myself.  Pass me the hot bread.”

“Burnett,” said Mitchell warmly, “I wish that you would remember that a collapse invariably follows an inflated market.”

“Is it Aunt Mary who is on the market, or myself?”

“You.”

“Oh, the rule is reversed in my case—­the collapse went first.  I’m only inflating up to the usual limit again.  Is there any gravy left?”

“No, there isn’t,” said Clover, looking in the dish, “there isn’t much of anything left.”

“Let’s go to the library,” said Mitchell, rising abruptly.  “It always makes me ill to see goose-stuffing before Thanksgiving.  Come on.”

“I’m done,” said Burnett, springing up and winding his lacey draperies about his manly form.  “Come on yourself; and once settled and smoking, let us canvass the question and agree with Clover.”