SLEEVES ARE A TRIFLE SHORT, MAYBE" _Faces p. 42_

THAT LITTLE SUPPER " 56

EVENING DRESS

FARCE

I

Mrs. Edward Roberts: "Now, my dear, Amy and I will get there early, so
as to make up for your coming a little late, but you _must_ be there for
the last half, at least. I would excuse you altogether if I could, for I
know you must be dead tired, up all night, that way, on the train, but
Mrs. Miller is one of those people who never _can_ listen to reason, and
she would take deadly offence if you missed her musicale, and wouldn't
forgive us the longest day she lived. So you see?" Mrs. Roberts
addresses herself to her husband in the library of their apartment in
Hotel Bellingham, at Boston, as she stands before the fire pulling on a
long glove and looking at him across his desk, where he has sunk into a
weary heap in his swivel chair. "You _are_ dreadfully used up, Edward,
and I think it's cruel to make you go out; but what can I do? If it was
anybody but Mrs. Miller I wouldn't _think_ of having you go; I'm sure I
never want to have her about, anyway. But that's just the kind of people
that you're a perfect slave to! Now, dear, I've let the two girls go
out, and you must remember that you're in the place alone with the
children; but you needn't be troubled, because nobody will come after
this hour till Willis does, and the girls will be back before that.
Willis is to come and get you on his way to the Millers', and it's all
been arranged for you, and you needn't think of a thing till Willis
comes. You'll have to dress, of course; but you needn't begin that at
once, and you can just sit here in your chair and rest." Mr. Roberts
stretches his arms wildly abroad, and, throwing back his head, permits
himself a yawn that eclipses his whole face. Mrs. Roberts lets both her
arms fall at her side in token of extreme despair. "Edward! If you
_should_ go to sleep!"

_Roberts_, pulling himself together, with a gigantic effort: "No, no!
You needn't be afraid, my dear. But, oh! what _wouldn't_ I give for a
chance to!"

_Mrs. Roberts_, who sinks into a chair and regards the unhappy man with
a look of tender compassion: "You poor thing, I've almost a mind to
_let_ you!"

_Roberts_, heroically: "No, it wouldn't do, Agnes. I must--ow, ugh,
ow--go. Ugh, ow, ugh!" He abandons himself to a succession of abysmal
yawns, in which the sequence of his ideas is altogether lost.

_Mrs. Ro