Then there was an interval of slamming doors, interesting silences,
feet that flew up and down stairs.
It was still good daylight when the dinner-bell rang the signal had
been agreed upon at tea-time, and carefully explained to Eliza.
Mademoiselle laid down her book and passed out of the
sunset-yellowed hail into the faint yellow gaslight of the
dining-room. The giggling Eliza held the door open before her, and
followed her in. The shutters had been closed streaks of daylight
showed above and below them. The green-and-black tablecloths of
the school dining-tables were supported on the clothes-line from
the backyard. The line sagged in a graceful curve, but it answered
its purpose of supporting the curtains which concealed that part of
the room which was the stage.
Rows of chairs had been placed across the other end of the room
all the chairs in the house, as it seemed and Mademoiselle started
violently when she saw that fully half a dozen of these chairs were
occupied. And by the queerest people, too an old woman with a
poke bonnet tied under her chin with a red handkerchief, a lady in
a large straw hat wreathed in flowers and the oddest hands that
stuck out over the chair in front of her, several men with strange,
clumsy figures, and all with hats on.
"But," whispered Mademoiselle, through the chinks of the
tablecloths, "you have then invited other friends? You should have
asked me, my children.
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