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 "Yes, you're quite right, Benjie; she should be down. We won't wait— Oh, here you are! We were just going in."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Whipple," Carrie gasped, shedding a faint-pink scarf that looked as if it had been wet and then rolled into a tight ball. "My hair just wouldn't do— Oh, Joe! Oh, thank you"

"At my right, Kate. Joseph must act as host."

They sat silent while Harcourt brought the soup, shaking out the glossy napkins, almost as big as tablecloths. Clean napkins for every meal, at Aunt Sarah's, not a napkin ring in the house. The things the Greens had for company, Aunt Sarah had just for herself—finger bowls at every meal, coffee after dinner, the beds changed all at once, instead of the top sheet turning into the bottom sheet.

Harcourt poured the sherry, and simultaneously Kate, Joe, and Carrie began to talk.

"How are your"

"What lovely"

"Why, Joe—er-ah"

"I beg your pardon!"

"I beg yours!"

"You were going to say?"

"Oh, nothing, really"

"Oh, please"

"Joseph must show you the stables to-morrow," said Aunt Sarah, her faint dry voice crackling lightly through the polite tumult. "Are you fond of horses?"