“Be quiet, sir!” said the father sternly, and Georgie obediently subsided, while Dexie could hardly repress a giggle.

“Let me help you to another piece, Plaisted,” said Mr. Sherwood.  “What! not any more?  It is not often we get such good shad in an inland town.  Halifax is the place for fine shad!  In the season, when the catch is fair, you can get your pick for a song almost, but here, I expect, their scarcity makes them of more value.”

“Yes,” replied Dexie, “they are rather dear, dear shad,” and she looked intently at her plate, well knowing how Plaisted was glaring at her.  “Yes,” she added, “I call them dear shad when one has to pick over such a quantity of bones before getting a satisfactory mouthful, don’t you, Mr. Plaisted?” But Mr. Plaisted laid down his knife and fork, and returned her look with interest.

“I fear you are not making a dinner at all, Mr. Plaisted,” Mrs. Sherwood put in.  “You do not seem to care for shad.”

“No!  I detest them, though I was not aware of the fact till to-day,” he replied.

“They are not cooked to your liking, I fear!  I wish, Dexie, you had looked after them a little better.  How do you prefer your shad cooked, Mr. Plaisted?” she added, in a concerned voice.

“I do not care for shad in any shape or form,” he said, rather shortly, which caused everyone to look up in dismay, all except Dexie, and she seemed intent on finding the minutest bone.

“I am very sorry!  You should have spoken about it sooner.  Eliza, remove Mr. Plaisted’s plate.  I hope we have something else you can relish.”

He made a show at eating what was set before him, but it was hard work.  Could his entertainers talk of nothing else but shad?  It appeared not, for when the conversation seemed about to turn to other things a skilfully put question, or a bit of information, brought the fish back to be discussed in another light; consequently, the shad question was pretty well sifted.  The method of catching them, the amount caught during the last season, the catch of the previous year compared with other years; in fact, Dexie seemed to have the fishing reports at her finger-ends, or at the end of her tongue, to speak literally, and Mr. Sherwood seemed delighted with the chance to air the knowledge he possessed to such an attentive listener.  But Mr. Plaisted’s thoughts were elsewhere; he was repeating to himself the lines he had no power to forget, and when dinner was over he was almost a mental wreck.

Dexie was exulting in his misery, and was longing to let him know she was the author of it.

When they entered the parlor, Mr. Sherwood turned to Dexie, saying:  “Give us some music, Dexie; something to cheer us up and drive away the blues,” and he nodded at Plaisted, who had thrown himself into a chair.

But seated at the piano, Dexie still kept up the torture of the dinner table by selecting songs that suggested fishing, or fishermen’s daughters, until Plaisted rose and walked the floor in ill-concealed distress.