Literary Lapses

"Well now," he said shyly, "I think I really...." "You must go?" said the lady politely. "I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner...." "Oh well, so I could, you know," Jones said, "if...." "Then please stay, I'm sure my husband will be delighted." "All right," he said feebly, "I'll stay," and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable. Papa came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid. After dinner mamma undertook to "draw him out," and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them--photos of papa's uncle and his wife, and mamma's brother and his little boy, an awfully interesting photo of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of papa's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of papa as the devil for a fancy-dress ball. At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose. "I must say good night now," he pleaded. "Say good night!" they said, "why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?" "Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably. Just then it turned out that the favourite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones's hat; so papa said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Papa had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then papa began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night, they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and papa put Jones to bed in the spare room and cursed him heartily.