“Hey, dere, poy, gif me some more oaf dat—­what you call—­’bubble-water.’”

That was how the waiter had spoken of the champagne—­“bubble-water.”  The guests had shouted applause, “Outa sight.”  He was a heavy josher was that waiter.

Bottle after bottle was opened, the women stopping their ears as the corks were drawn.  All of a sudden the dentist uttered an exclamation, clapping his hand to his nose, his face twisting sharply.

“Mac, what is it?” cried Trina in alarm.

“That champagne came to my nose,” he cried, his eyes watering.  “It stings like everything.”

“Great beer, ain’t ut?” shouted Marcus.

“Now, Mark,” remonstrated Trina in a low voice.  “Now, Mark, you just shut up; that isn’t funny any more.  I don’t want you should make fun of Mac.  He called it beer on purpose.  I guess he knows.”

Throughout the meal old Miss Baker had occupied herself largely with Owgooste and the twins, who had been given a table by themselves—­the black walnut table before which the ceremony had taken place.  The little dressmaker was continually turning about in her place, inquiring of the children if they wanted for anything; inquiries they rarely answered other than by stare, fixed, ox-like, expressionless.

Suddenly the little dressmaker turned to Old Grannis and exclaimed: 

“I’m so very fond of little children.”

“Yes, yes, they’re very interesting.  I’m very fond of them, too.”

The next instant both of the old people were overwhelmed with confusion.  What!  They had spoken to each other after all these years of silence; they had for the first time addressed remarks to each other.

The old dressmaker was in a torment of embarrassment.  How was it she had come to speak?  She had neither planned nor wished it.  Suddenly the words had escaped her, he had answered, and it was all over—­over before they knew it.

Old Grannis’s fingers trembled on the table ledge, his heart beat heavily, his breath fell short.  He had actually talked to the little dressmaker.  That possibility to which he had looked forward, it seemed to him for years—­that companionship, that intimacy with his fellow-lodger, that delightful acquaintance which was only to ripen at some far distant time, he could not exactly say when—­behold, it had suddenly come to a head, here in this over-crowded, over-heated room, in the midst of all this feeding, surrounded by odors of hot dishes, accompanied by the sounds of incessant mastication.  How different he had imagined it would be!  They were to be alone—­he and Miss Baker—­in the evening somewhere, withdrawn from the world, very quiet, very calm and peaceful.  Their talk was to be of their lives, their lost illusions, not of other people’s children.