her, and it always brings her to a higher
point of excitement.

"Tie, nonsense; marrying is roping in with ball and chain, to my mind.
And a week between a man and a woman in their cradles gets to be fifteen
years between them and their graves. Well, I must go home now to see
that Sally cooks up a few of Mr. Johnson's crotchets for supper." And
she began to hurry away.

Marriage is the only worm in the bud of Mrs. Johnson's life, and her
laugh has a snap to it even if it is not very sugary sweet.

When I told Jane about the dinner-party and asked her to get her mother
to come and help her, and her nephew to wait at table, she smiled such
a wide smile that I was afraid of being swallowed. She understood that
Aunt Adeline wouldn't be interested in it until I had time to tell her
all about it. Anyway, Aunt will be going over to Springfield on a
pilgrimage to see Mr. Henderson's sister next week. She doesn't know it
yet; but I do.

After that I spent all the rest of the evening in planning my
dinner-party, and I had a most royal good time. I always have had lots
of company, but mostly the spend-the-day kind with relatives, or more
relatives to supper. That's what most entertaining in Hillsboro is like,
but, as I say, once in a while the old slow pacer wakes up.

I'll never forget my first real party. I was bridesmaid for Caroline
Evans, when she married a Birmingham magnate, from which Hillsboro has
never yet recovered. It was the week before the wedding. I was sixteen,
felt dreadfully unclothed without a tucker in my dress, and saw Alfred
for the first time in evening clothes--his first. I can hardly stand
thinking about how he looked even now. I haven't been to very many
parties in my life, but from this time on I mean to indulge in them
often. Candle-light, pretty women's frocks, black coat sleeves, cut
glass and flowers are good ingredients for a joy-drink, and why not?

But when I got to planning about the gorgeous food I wanted to give them
all, I got into what I feel came near being a serious trouble. It was
writing down the recipe for the nesselrode pudding they make in my
family that undid me. Suddenly hunger rose up from nowhere and gripped
me by the throat, gnawed me all over like a bone, then shook me until
I was limp and unresisting. I must have astralised myself down to the
pantry, for when I became conscious I found myself in company with a
loaf of bread, a plate of butter and a huge jar of jam.

I s