"
Seated at the dinner table, the publisher was very large, very ruddy,
very imposing. He had a trick of imbibing his food solemnly, with a
judicial air which sent apprehensive chills coursing down Cicely's spine,
as she watched him pursing up his lips over the salad and nibbling
daintily at the macaroni. The dinner was good, as far as it went. Of so
much she was certain, for Susan was an expert in plain cookery, and, in
her own cooking class, Cicely had shown herself past master in the art of
entrees. It only remained to be seen whether or not she could succeed in
getting the supplies to and from the table without losing off her cap or
dropping too many of the forks. Just outside the door, Allyn was toiling
handily in her behalf; and, strange to say, she was free from the
obstacle she had most feared, that Melchisedek would get under her feet
at some critical moment, and project her headlong, roast and all, upon
the smooth bald pate of Mr. Gilwyn. To her relief, the dog had
mysteriously vanished. She was too glad to be rid of him to care whence
or wherefore he had gone.
Little by little, she entered into the spirit of her part. At first, she
had been a little frightened at what she had undertaken. She feared a
break, either of ceremony or china. Then, as she had time to watch the
guest and accustom herself to his ways and his appetite, she devoted her
energy to plying him with goodies, bending beside him with grave and
deferential mien, then straightening up again to pass through a dumb show
of mirth above his august head.
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