“By all means let’s have a reception,” said Mrs. Blinks.  “It’s the quickest and nicest way to meet our old friends again after all these years.  And goodness knows this house is big enough for it”—­she gave a glance as she spoke round the big reception-room of the Blinkses’ residence—­“and these servants seem to understand things so perfectly it’s no trouble to us to give anything.  Only don’t let’s ask a whole lot of chattering young people that we don’t know; let’s have the older people, the ones that can talk about something really worth while.”

“That’s just what I say,” answered Mr. Blinks—­he was a small man with insignificance written all over him—­“let me listen to people talk; that’s what I like.  I’m not much on the social side myself, but I do enjoy hearing good talk.  That’s what I liked so much over in England.  All them—­all those people that we used to meet talked so well.  And in France those ladies that run saloons on Sunday afternoons—­”

“Sallongs,” corrected Mrs. Blinks.  “It’s sounded like it was a G.”  She picked up a pencil and paper.  “Well, then,” she said, as she began to write down names, “we’ll ask Judge Ponderus—­”

“Sure!” assented Mr. Blinks, rubbing his hands.  “He’s a fine talker, if he’ll come!”

“They’ll all come,” said his wife, “to a house as big as this; and we’ll ask the Rev. Dr. Domb and his wife—­or, no, he’s Archdeacon Domb now, I hear—­and he’ll invite Bishop Sollem, so they can talk together.”

“That’ll be good,” said Mr. Blinks.  “I remember years and years ago hearing them two—­those two, talking about religion, all about the soul and the body.  Man!  It was deep.  It was clean beyond me.  That’s what I like to listen to.”

“And Professor Potofax from the college,” went on Mrs. Blinks.  “You remember, the big stout one.”

“I know,” said her husband.

“And his daughter, she’s musical, and Mrs. Buncomtalk, she’s a great light on woman suffrage, and Miss Scragg and Mr. Underdone—­they both write poetry, so they can talk about that.”

“It’ll be a great treat to listen to them all,” said Mr. Blinks.

A week later, on the day of the Blinkses’ reception, there was a string of motors three deep along a line of a hundred yards in front of the house.

Inside the reception rooms were filled.

Mr. Blinks, insignificant even in his own house, moved to and fro among his guests.

Archdeacon Domb and Dean Sollem were standing side by side with their heads gravely lowered, as they talked, over the cups of tea that they held in their hands.

Mr. Blinks edged towards them.

“This’ll be something pretty good,” he murmured to himself as he got within reach of their conversation.

“What do you do about your body?” the Archdeacon was asking in his deep, solemn tones.

“Practically nothing,” said the Bishop.  “A little rub of shellac now and then, but practically nothing.”