host, whose demure garb and gentle countenance seemed to indicate her as a Lady Pacifist, but denied all further identification.  The mild, ecclesiastical features of a second guest, so entirely Christian in its expression as to be almost devoid of expression altogether, marked him at once as An Eminent Divine, but, while puzzlingly suggestive of an actual and well-known person, seemed to elude exact recognition.  His accent, when he presently spoke, stamped him as British and his garb was that of the Established Church.  Another guest appeared to answer to the general designation of Capitalist or Philanthropist, and seemed from his prehensile grasp upon his knife and fork to typify the Money Power.  In front of this guest, doubtless with a view of indicating his extreme wealth and the consideration in which he stood, was placed a floral decoration representing a broken bank, with the figure of a ruined depositor entwined among the debris.

Of these nameless guests, two individuals alone, from the very significance of their appearance, from their plain dress, unsuited to the occasion, and from the puzzled expression of their faces, seemed out of harmony with the galaxy of distinction which surrounded them.  They seemed to speak only to one another, and even that somewhat after the fashion of an appreciative chorus to what the rest of the company was saying; while the manner in which they rubbed their hands together and hung upon the words of the other speakers in humble expectancy seemed to imply that they were present in the hope of gathering rather than shedding light.  To these two humble and obsequious guests no attention whatever was paid, though it was understood, by those who knew, that their names were The General Public and the Man on the Street.

“A sad spectacle,” said the Negro President, and he sighed as he spoke.  “One wonders if our civilisation, if our moral standards themselves, are slipping from us.”  Then half in reverie, or as if overcome by the melancholy of his own thought, he lifted a spoon from the table and slid it gently into the bosom of his faded uniform.

“Put back that spoon!” called The Lady Pacifist sharply.

“Pardon!” said the Negro President humbly, as he put it back.  The humiliation of generations of servitude was in his voice.

“Come, come,” exclaimed Mr. Jennings Bryan cheerfully, “try a little more of the grape juice?”

“Does it intoxicate?” asked the President.

“Never,” answered Mr. Bryan.  “Rest assured of that.  I can guarantee it.  The grape is picked in the dark.  It is then carried, still in the dark, to the testing room.  There every particle of alcohol is removed.  Try it.”

“Thank you,” said the President.  “I am no longer thirsty.”

“Will anybody have some more of the grape juice?” asked Mr. Bryan, running his eye along the ranks of the guests.

No one spoke.

“Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?”