THE SALE OF ANTIQUITIES
"Just so," said Albert's uncle; "well, shall we permit the eye of the Maidstone Antiquities to profane these sacred solitudes, and the foot of the Field Club to kick up a dust on our gravel?"
"Our gravel is all grass," H. O. said. And the girls said, "Oh, do let them come!" It was Alice who said:
"Why not ask them to tea? They'll be very tired coming all the way from Maidstone."
"Would you really like it?" Albert's uncle asked. "I'm afraid they'll be but dull dogs, the Antiquities, stuffy old gentlemen with amphoræ in their button-holes instead of orchids, and pedigrees poking out of all their pockets."
We laughed—because we knew what an amphoræ is. If you don't you might look it up in the dicker. It's not a flower, though it sounds like one out of the gardening book, the kind you never hear of any one growing.
Dora said she thought it would be splendid.
"And we could have out the best china," she said, "and decorate the table with flowers. We could have tea in the garden. We've never had a party since we've been here."
"I warn you that your guests may be boresome; however, have it your own way." Albert's uncle said; and he went off to write the invitation to tea to the Maidstone Antiquities. I know that is the wrong word—but somehow we all used it whenever we spoke of them, which was often.
In a day or two Albert's uncle came in to tea with a lightly clouded brow.
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