“And, oh, my aunt!” he said, “what a sweet disposition the von Inwald has!  Watch him going up and banging his head against the wall!”

Everybody was charmed with the Salome dance, especially when Miss Summers drew the cover off a meat platter she’d been dancing around, and there was Arabella sitting on her hind legs, with a card tied to her neck, and the card said that at eleven there would be a clambake in the kitchen for all the guests.

(The clambake was my idea, but the dog, of course, was Miss Julia’s.  I never saw a woman so full of ideas, although it seems that what should have been on the platter was the head of somebody or other.)

Just after the dance I saw Mr. von Inwald talking to Miss Patty.  He had been ugly all evening, and now he looked like a devil.  She stood facing him with her head thrown back and her fingers twisting her ruby ring.  I guessed that she was about as much surprised as anything else, people having a habit of being pleasant to her most of the time.  He left her in a rage, and as he went he collided with Arabella and kicked her.  Miss Patty went white but Miss Summers was not a bit put out.  She simply picked up the howling dog and confronted Mr. von Inwald.

“Perhaps you didn’t notice,” she said sweetly, “but you kicked my dog.”

“Why don’t you keep her out of the way?” he snarled, and they stood glaring at each other.

“Under the circumstances, Arabella,” Miss Julia said—­and everybody was listening—­“we can only withdraw Mr. von Inwald’s invitation to the kitchen.”

“Thank you, I had not intended to go,” he said furiously, and went out into the veranda, slamming the door behind him.  Mr. Jennings looked up from where he was playing chess by the fire and nodded at Miss Summers.

“Serves him right for his temper!” he said.

“Checkmate!” said the bishop.

Mr. Jennings turned and glared at the board.  Then with one sweep he threw all the chessmen on the floor.  As Tillie said later, it would be a pity to spoil two houses with Mr. von Inwald and Mr. Jennings If they were in the same family, they could work it off on each other.

Miss Patty came down to the news stand and pretended to hunt for a magazine.  I reached over and stroked her hand.  “Don’t take it too hard, dearie,” I said.  “He’s put out to-night, and maybe he isn’t well.  Men are like babies.  If their stomachs are all right and have plenty in them, they’re pleasant enough.  It’s been my experience that your cranky man’s a sick man.”

“I don’t think he is sick, Minnie,” she said, with a catch in her voice.  “I—­I think he is just dev—­devilish!”

Well, I thought that too, so I just stroked her hand, and after a minute she got her color again.  “It is hard for him,” she said.  “He thinks this is all vulgar and American, and—­oh, Minnie, I want to get away, and yet what shall I do without you to keep me sensible.”