"I haven't had but two
dinners before to-night."
Clover smiled because he heard, and Aunt Mary smiled because she didn't,
but was happy anyway. She had altogether forgotten that she had demurred
at dining out. They all sat down and shook out their napkins. Mitchell and
Clover shook Aunt Mary's for her and gave it a beautiful cornerways spread
across her lap.
Then the waiter laid another plate for Mitchell, and brought oyster
cocktails for everyone. Aunt Mary eyed hers with early curiosity and later
suspicion; and she smelled of it very carefully.
"I don't believe they're good oysters," she said.
"Yes, they are," cried Mitchell reassuringly. His voice, when he turned it
upon her, was pitched like a clarionet. The blind would surely have seen
as well as the deaf have heard had there been any candidates for miracles
in his immediate vicinity. "They're first-class," he added, "you just go
at them and see."
The reassured took another whiff.
"You can have mine," she said directly afterwards; and there was an air of
decision about her speech which brooked no opposition. Yet Mitchell
persisted.
"Oh, no," he yelled; "you must learn how. Just throw your head back and
take 'em quick--after the fashion that they eat raw eggs, don't you know?"
"But she can't," said Clover. "There's too much, particularly as she isn't
used to them. I'll tell you, Miss Watkins," he cried, hoisting his own
voice to the masthead, "you eat the oysters, and leave the cocktail.
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