ream and sugar, Mr. Flutter?"

"I'm not particular which, Mrs. Jones."

"Do you take _both_?" she persisted, with everybody at the table
looking my way.

"No, ma'am, only coffee," said I, my face the color of the
beet-pickles.

She finally passed me a cup, and, in my embarrassment, I immediately
took a swallow and burnt my mouth.

"Have you lost any friends lately?" asked that wretched Fred, seeing
the tears in my eyes.

I enjoyed that tea-party as geese enjoy _pate de fois gras_. It was a
prolonged torment under the guise of pleasure. I refused everything I
wanted, and took everything I didn't want. I got a back of the cold
chicken; there was nothing of it but bone. I thought I must appear to
be eating it, and it slipped out from under my fork and flew into the
dish of preserved cherries.

We had strawberries. I am very partial to strawberries and cream. I
got a saucer of the berries, and was looking about for the cream when
Miss Smith's mother, at my right hand, said:

"Mr. Flutter, will you have some _whip_ with your strawberries?"

Whip with my berries! I thought she was making fun of me, and
stammered:

"No, I thank you," and so I lost the delicious frothed cream that I
coveted.

The agony of the thing was drawing to a close. I was longing for the
time when I could go home and get some cold potatoes out of mother's
cupboard. I hadn't eaten worth a cent.

Pretty soon we all moved back our chairs and rose. I offered my arm to
Belle, as I supposed. Between the sitting-room and parlor there was a
little dark hall, and when we got in there I summoned up courage,
passed my arm around my fair partner, and gave her a hug.

"You ain't so bashful as you look," said she, and then we stepped into
the parlor, and I found I'd been squeezing Widow Jones' waist.

She gave me a look full of languishing sweetness that scared me nearly
to death. I thought of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. Visions of suits
for breaches of promise arose before my horrified vision. I glanced
wildly around in search of Belle; she was hanging on a young lawyer's
arm, and not looking at me.

"La, now, you needn't color up so," said the widow, coquettishly, "I
know what young men are."

She said it aloud, on purpose for Belle to hear. I felt like killing
her. I might have done it, but one thought restrained me--I should be
hung for murder, and I was too bashful to submit to so public an
ordeal.

I hurried across the room to get rid o