The day of his party drew near.
"_My_ party," he would echo bitterly when anyone of his family
mentioned it. "I don't _want_ it. I don't _want_ ole Johnnie Brent an'
all that lot. I'd just like to un-invite 'em all."
"But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry," coaxed his Mother.
"I can have them any time an' I don't like 'em at parties. They're not
the same. I don't like _anyone_ at parties. I don't _want_ a party!"
"But you _must_ have a party, William, to ask back people who ask
you."
William took up his previous attitude.
"Well, where's the _sense_ of it?" he groaned.
As usual he had the last word, but left his audience unconvinced. They
began on him a full hour before his guests were due. He was brushed
and scrubbed and scoured and cleaned. He was compressed into an Eton
suit and patent leather pumps and finally deposited in the
drawing-room, cowed and despondent, his noble spirit all but broken.
The guests began to arrive. William shook hands politely with three
strangers shining with soap, brushed to excess, and clothed in
ceremonial Eton suits--who in ordinary life were Ginger, Douglas, and
Henry. They then sat down and gazed at each other in strained and
unnatural silence. They could find nothing to say to each other.
Ordinary topics seemed to be precluded by their festive appearance and
the formal nature of the occasion. Their informal meetings were
usually celebrated by impromptu wrestling matches.
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