Bella had brought dessert and two bottles of wine, thus shedding unprecedented splendour on the occasion. Mrs. Wilfer did the honours of the first glass by proclaiming: “ R. W. I drink to you.
“Thank you, my dear. And I to you.”
“Pa and Ma!” said Bella.
“Permit me,” Mrs. Wilfer interposed, with outstretched glove. “No. I think not. I drank to your papa. If, however, you insist on including me, I can in gratitude offer no objection.”
“Why, Lor, Ma,” interposed Lavvy the bold, “isn’t it the day that made you and Pa one and the same? I have no patience!”
“By whatever other circumstance the day may be marked, it is not the day, Lavinia, on which I will allow a child of mine to pounce upon me. I beg—nay, command!—that you will not pounce. R. W. , it is appropriate to recall that it is for you to command and for me to obey. It is your house, and you are master at your own table. Both our healths!” Drinking the toast with tremendous stiffness.
“I really am a little afraid, my dear,” hinted the cherub meekly, “that you are not enjoying yourself?”
“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Wilfer, “quite so. Why should I not?”
“I thought, my dear, that perhaps your face might—”
“My face might be a martyrdom, but what would that import, or who should know it, if I smiled?”