“Take a look at that door, James,” he was saying.  “I guess you’ll have to tend to business if you want any dinner.”

They all turned and saw the grinning heads of some of the carpenters peering into the room.  There was the shuffling of many feet behind them on the stairs, and the sound of cat calls and whistling.  A shove was passed on from somewhere back in the hallway, and one of the carpenters came sprawling through the door.  The others yelled good-naturedly.

“I’ll fix ’em,” said James, with a laugh, starting toward them.

“Give him a lift, Pete,” said Bannon.  “He’ll need it.  You two’d better keep the stairs clear for a while, or they’ll stampede us.”

So Pete followed, and for a few moments the uproar from the stairs drowned all attempts at conversation.  Only Max was left with them now.  He stood back by the wall, still looking helplessly from one to the other.  The restaurant men were bustling about the floor; and Hilda was glad they were there, for she knew that Bannon meant to send Max away, too.  She was too nervous to stand still; and she walked around the table, resetting the knives and forks and spoons.  The paper napkins on this table were the only ones in the room.  She wondered at this, and when the noise of the men had died away into a few jeering cries from the street, and Max had gone to get the flags (for she had said that they should be hung at this end of the room), and the waiters were bustling about, it gave her a chance to break the silence.

“Aren’t the other”—­she had to stop to clear her throat—­“aren’t the other men going to have napkins?”

“They wouldn’t know what they were for.”

His easy tone gave her a momentary sense of relief.

“They’d tie them on their hats, or make balls to throw around.”  He paused, but added:  “It wouldn’t look bad, though, would it?—­to stand them up this way on all the tables.”

She made no reply.

“What do you say?” He was looking at her.  “Shall we do it?”

She nodded, and then dropped her eyes, angry with herself that she could not overcome her nervousness.  There was another silence, and she broke it.

“It would look a good deal better,” she said, “if you have time to do it.  Max and I will put up the flags.”

She had meant to say something that would give her a better control of the situation, but it sounded very flat and disagreeable—­and she had not meant it to sound disagreeable.  Indeed, as soon as the words were out, and she felt his eyes on her, and she knew that she was blushing, she was not sure that she had meant it at all.  Perhaps that was why, when Bannon asked, in a low voice, “Would you rather Max would help you?” she turned away and answered in a cool tone that did not come from any one of her rushing, struggling thoughts, “If you don’t mind.”