But the majority of those present felt decidedly disturbed by the incident, and poor Miss Jill Oliphant had the mortification of seeing her party drop flat after all.
Tom and she made Herculean efforts to rehabilitate it.

Jill played her polka till she was tired, and Tom, after setting out all the duplicate "goes" in the hall, retired to grope in the wet grass for a few of the unexploded squibs.
Some of the guests did what they could to back their hosts up, and made great show of enjoying themselves, but the Duke was preoccupied, and the Bishop was pensive.

The Marigold girls talked in a corner, and Mr Pottinger was out in the hall calling for his carriage.
"Odious man!" said the poor little hostess, "he's spoiled all our fun.
No one likes our party now.

They'll all be glad to get away; and we did try so hard to make it jolly." "Never mind," said Tom cheerfully, "it would have been worse if he had turned up before the grub and the fireworks.

They didn't miss them.
Keep it up, Jilly, I say; it's going off all right." When it came to saying good night, every one remembered their genial entertainers, and Jill was a little consoled by the assurances she received on all hands that the evening had been a delightful one.
"Try to think it was nice," said she, "and don't go saying it was horrid as soon as you get outside.