The two old people did not speak again.  They sat there side by side, nearer than they had ever been before, motionless, abstracted; their thoughts far away from that scene of feasting.  They were thinking of each other and they were conscious of it.  Timid, with the timidity of their second childhood, constrained and embarrassed by each other’s presence, they were, nevertheless, in a little Elysium of their own creating.  They walked hand in hand in a delicious garden where it was always autumn; together and alone they entered upon the long retarded romance of their commonplace and uneventful lives.

At last that great supper was over, everything had been eaten; the enormous roast goose had dwindled to a very skeleton.  Mr. Sieppe had reduced the calf’s head to a mere skull; a row of empty champagne bottles—­“dead soldiers,” as the facetious waiter had called them—­lined the mantelpiece.  Nothing of the stewed prunes remained but the juice, which was given to Owgooste and the twins.  The platters were as clean as if they had been washed; crumbs of bread, potato parings, nutshells, and bits of cake littered the table; coffee and ice-cream stains and spots of congealed gravy marked the position of each plate.  It was a devastation, a pillage; the table presented the appearance of an abandoned battlefield.

“Ouf,” cried Mrs. Sieppe, pushing back, “I haf eatun und eatun, ach, Gott, how I haf eatun!”

“Ah, dot kaf’s het,” murmured her husband, passing his tongue over his lips.

The facetious waiter had disappeared.  He and Maria Macapa foregathered in the kitchen.  They drew up to the washboard of the sink, feasting off the remnants of the supper, slices of goose, the remains of the lobster salad, and half a bottle of champagne.  They were obliged to drink the latter from teacups.

“Here’s how,” said the waiter gallantly, as he raised his tea-cup, bowing to Maria across the sink.  “Hark,” he added, “they’re singing inside.”

The company had left the table and had assembled about the melodeon, where Selina was seated.  At first they attempted some of the popular songs of the day, but were obliged to give over as none of them knew any of the words beyond the first line of the chorus.  Finally they pitched upon “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” as the only song which they all knew.  Selina sang the “alto,” very much off the key; Marcus intoned the bass, scowling fiercely, his chin drawn into his collar.  They sang in very slow time.  The song became a dirge, a lamentable, prolonged wail of distress: 

     “Nee-rah, my Gahd, to Thee,
     Nee-rah to Thee-ah.”

At the end of the song, Uncle Oelbermann put on his hat without a word of warning.  Instantly there was a hush.  The guests rose.

“Not going so soon, Uncle Oelbermann?” protested Trina, politely.  He only nodded.  Marcus sprang forward to help him with his overcoat.  Mr. Sieppe came up and the two men shook hands.