Bartholomew had done his watching and smelling, likewise; he had made all he could be expected to of that limited enjoyment.  Now he walked round the table with an air of consciousness that supper was served.  He sat by his mistress’s chair, lifted one paw with well-bred expressiveness, stretching out the digits of it as a dainty lady extends her lesser fingers when she lifts her cup, or breaks a bit of bread.  It was a delicate suggestion of exquisite appreciation, and of most excellent manners.  Once he began a whine, but recollected himself and suppressed it, as the dainty lady might a yawn.

Aunt Blin gave him two oysters, and three spoonfuls of broth in his own saucer, before she helped herself.  After all, she ate in her turn very little more.  It was hardly worth while to have made a business of being comfortable.

“I don’t think they have such good oysters as they used to,” she remarked, stepping over her s’es in a very carpeted and stocking-footed way.

“Perhaps I didn’t put enough seasoning”—­Bel began, but was interrupted in the middle of her reply.

The big bell two squares off clanged a heavy stroke caught up on the echo by others that sounded smaller farther and farther away, making their irregular, yet familiar phrase and cadence on the air.

It was the fire alarm.

“H—­zh!  Hark!” Aunt Blin changed the muffled but eager monosyllable to a sharper one; and being reminded, felt in her lap, under her napkin, for her “ornaments,” as Bel called them.

But she counted the strokes before she put them in, nodding her head, and holding up her finger to Bel and Bartholomew for silence.  Everything stopped where it was with Miss Bree when the fire alarm sounded.

One—­two—­three—­four—­five.

“In the city,” said Aunt Blin, with a certain weird unconscious satisfaction; and whipped the porcelains into their places before the second tolling should begin.  They were like Pleasant Riderhood’s back hair:  she was all twisted up, now, and ready.

One—­two.

“That ain’t fur off.  Down Bedford Street way.  Give me the fire-book, and my glasses.”

She turned the folds of the card with one hand, and adjusted her spectacles with the other.

“Bedford and Lincoln.  Why, that’s close by where Miss Proddle boards!”

“That’s the box, Auntie.  You always forget the fire isn’t in the box.”

“Well, it will be if they don’t get along with their steamers.  I ain’t heard one go by yet.”

“They haven’t any horses, you know.”

“Hark! there’s one now!  O, do hush!  There’s the bell again!”

Bel was picking up the tea-things for washing.  She set down the little pile which she had gathered, went to the window, and drew up the blind.

“My gracious!  And there’s the fire!”

It shone up, red, into the sky, from over the tall roofs.