Wetherbee.

Never had such a dinner taken place at the corner table, or, in fact,
at any other table at Shandy's. Sam brought beefsteaks, which were
princely, mushrooms, and hashed brown potatoes in portions whose
generosity reached the heart. Sam was on good terms with Shandy's
carver, and had worked upon his nobler feelings. Steins of lager beer
were ventured upon. There was hearty satisfying of fine hungers. Two of
the party had eaten nothing but one "Quick Lunch" throughout the day,
one of them because he was short of time, the other for economy's
sake, because he was short of money. The meal was a splendid thing. The
telling of the story could not be wholly checked by the eating of food.
It advanced between mouthfuls, questions being asked and details given
in answers. Shandy's became more crowded, as the hour advanced. People
all over the room cast interested looks at the party at the corner
table, enjoying itself so hugely. Groups sitting at the tables nearest
to it found themselves excited by the things they heard.

"That young fellow in the new suit has just come back from Europe," said
a man to his wife and daughter. "He seems to have had a good time."

"Papa," the daughter leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice, "I heard
him say 'Lord Mount Dunstan said Lady Anstruthers and Miss Vanderpoel
were at the garden party.' Who do you suppose he is?"

"Well, he's a nice young fellow, and he has English clothes on, but he
doesn't look like one of the Four Hundred. Will you have pie or vanilla
ice cream, Bessy?"

Bessy--who chose vanilla ice cream--lost all knowledge of its flavour
in her absorption in the conversation at the next table, which she could
not have avoided hearing, even if she had wished.

"She bent over the bed and laughed--just like any other nice girl--and
she said, 'You are at Stornham Court, which belongs to Sir Nigel
Anstruthers. Lady Anstruthers is my sister. I am Miss Vanderpoel.' And,
boys, she used to come and talk to me every day."

"George," said Nick Baumgarten, "you take about seventy-five bottles of
Warner's Safe Cure, and rub yourself all over with St. Jacob's Oil. Luck
like that ain't HEALTHY!"

. . . . .

Mr. Vanderpoel, sitting in his study, wore the interestedly grave look
of a man thinking of absorbing things. He had just given orders that a
young man who would call in the course of the evening should be brought
to him at once, and he was incidentally considering this you