The host rose, and, leaning on his fingertips, he addressed me: "Sir,
all this doubtless strikes you as rather extraordinary."
"Very extraordinary," I replied.
"To dine under such circumstances is not accorded to every man."
"To which do you refer: the honor or the _modus operandi_?"
"Both. Now, an explanation is due you."
"So I observe,"--gravely.
"The pleasure is mine. To begin with, permit me to introduce you to my
guests." One by one he named them, the ladies and gentlemen. I had heard
of them all. Money had made them famous. "As for myself, I am Daniel
Ainsworth; this is my home. I dare say you have heard of me."
"I have won money on your horses, sir,"--with all the gravity of
expression I found possible to assume.
My remark was greeted with laughter.
My host, composing his lips, resumed. "And now, sir, whom have I the
honor to address?"
"I am the author of many a famous poem,"--tranquilly.
"Ah!"
"Yes; anonymous. Sir, my name would mean nothing to you or your guests:
I am poor."
There was a trace of admiration in the girl's eyes as she turned her
head. "Besides," I went on, "I want a little revenge."
"Good!" bawled my host; "good! You're a man of kidney, sir. A gentleman
is always a gentleman; and I do not need to look at you twice, sir, to
note that my niece's choice has been a happy one."
"You have not introduced me to your niece," said I, "who is, next to
myself, the most important guest at the table."
"Hang me! The young lady at your side is Miss Helen Berkeley, the best
horsewoman in the state, if I do say so myself."
Great applause, as they say in the press gallery. I looked squarely at
the girl, but she was busy turning round her empty wine-glass.
"I appreciate the honor, sir," I said; "but now will you favor me with
the _modus operandi_, or, to be particular, the reason of all this
mystery?"
"I approach that at once. This is leap year, as you will recollect. On
January first I gave a leap-year party, and in the spirit of fun each
lady present declared her intention of bringing to a series of late
dinners a gentleman whom none of us knew, either by sight or by
reputation. He was to be lured into a carriage by some story or other,
and was not to know the true state of things till he sat at the table.
My niece was the last on the list. Those who backed down were to give a
house-party of a week's length. Women detest house-parties, and that is
the one reason why this comedy has gone down the line without a failure.
This is the eighth dinner. Each lady present has fulfilled her
obligation to the year. We have had some curious specimens of humanity:
a barber, a mild lunatic, a detective who thought he was on the trail of
some terrible crime, an actor, a political reformer, and an English
groom who palmed himself off as a lord. The actor and yourself, sir, are
the only men who seemed to possess any knowledge of the various uses of
dinner forks."
"You haven't seen me eat yet," I interpolated. All this was highly
amusing to me. I was less a victim than a spectator.
"You will do us the honor of permitting us to criticize your knowledge
of the forks," laughed Ainsworth. "Now, Nell, tell us how you lured Mr.
Anonymous into your carriage."
Very quietly she recounted the tale. She omitted but one incident.
"In front of a club!" cried the ladies in unison. "Why in the world
didn't we think of that?"
"Miss Berkeley has omitted one thing," said I maliciously.
"And, pray, what?" asked Miss Berkeley's uncle.
"Remember," she whispered, "you are supposed to be a gentleman."