There was a pause. The whole strength of the company gazed at me like a family group out of one of Edgar Allan Poe’s less cheery yarns, and I felt my joie de vivre dying at the roots.

“I remember Oliver,” said Exhibit A. She heaved a sigh. “He was such a pretty child. What a pity! What a pity!”

Tactful, of course, and calculated to put the guest completely at his ease.

“I remember Oliver,” said Exhibit B, looking at me in much the same way the Bosher Street beak had looked at Sippy before putting on the black cap. “Nasty little boy! He teased my cat.”

“Aunt Jane’s memory is wonderful, considering that she will be eighty-seven next birthday,” whispered Mrs. Pringle with mournful pride.

“What did you say?” asked the Exhibit suspiciously.