Aunt Delia pressed back the white satin bow on her bosom in order to manage her second glass with entire safety.
"I don't know, Marcella," she said in a dreamy undertone, after draining the cup to its cherry.

"I don't know--it does seem to take hold, for all it tastes so trifling." As each lady arrived she was led to the punch-bowl.

When the last one had been taught the way to that cool nook, there was a pleasant hum of voices in the room.

There was still an undercurrent of difference as to the punch's merit--other than mere coolness; though Miss Eubanks now agreed with Aunt Delia that it possessed virtues not to be discerned in the first careless draught.

The conversation continued to be general, to the immense delight of the hostess, for she had dreaded the ordeal of that formal opening, with its minutes of the last meeting; and she had dared even to hope that the day's paper might, by tactful management, be averted.
She waxed more daringly hopeful when Clem came to refill the punch-bowl.
She felt that she owed much to the heat of the day, which was insuring the thirst of the arrivals.