They wa’n’t such bad lookers, either.  They has good complexions, kind of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf’table ways.  But there was so much of ’em!  Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath, expectin’ to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through a rollin’ machine.

Nothin’ tragic like that happens, though.  They don’t even crowd him into the soup.  But it’s an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and the Hibbs sisters doin’ a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and Aunty holds down the side lines.  And nothin’ that’s said or done gets away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me!

Looked like something wa’n’t goin’ just like she’d planned; for the glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin’, he sees James uncorkin’ a bottle of fizz.  Merry almost drops his fork and gawps at Aunty sort of dazed.

“Meredith,” says she, snappy, “go on with your carving!  Young man, I suppose you don’t take wine?”

“N-n-no, Ma’am,” says I, watchin’ her turn my glass down.  I might have chanced a sip or two, at that; but Aunty has different ideas.

I notice that J. Meredith seems to shy at the bubbly stuff, as if he was lettin’ on he hated it.  He makes a bluff or two; but all he does is wet his lips.  At that Aunty gives a snort.

“Meredith,” says she, hoistin’ her hollow-stemmed glass sporty, “to our guests!”

“Ah, to be sure,” says Merry, and puts his nose into the sparkles in dead earnest.

Somehow the table chat livens up a lot soon after that.  It was one of the Miss Hibbs askin’ him something about life abroad that starts Merry off.  He begins tellin’ about Budapest and Vienna and a lot more of them guidebook spots, and how comf’table you can live there, and the music, and the cafes, and the sights, gettin’ real enthusiastic over it, until one of the sisters breaks in with: 

“Think of that, Pansy!  If we could only do such things!”

“But why not?” says Merry.

“Two women alone?” says a Miss Hibbs.

“True,” says J. Meredith.  “One needs an escort.”

“Ah-h-h-h, yes!” sighs Violet.

“Ah-h-h, yes!” echoes Pansy.

“James,” puts in Aunty just then, “fill Mr. Stidler’s glass.”

Merry wa’n’t shyin’ it any more.  He insists on clickin’ rims with the Hibbs sisters, and they does it real kittenish.  Merry stops in the middle of his salad to unload that old one about the Irishman that the doctor tried to throw a scare into by tellin’ him if he didn’t quit the booze he’d go blind within three months.  You know—­when Mike comes back with, “Well, I’m an old man, and I’m thinkin’ I’ve seen most everything worth while.”  Pansy and Violet shook until their chairs creaked, and one of ’em near swallows her napkin tryin’ to stop the chuckles.