“‘However, Stoker appeared cheerily satisfied and mysteriously complacent, and seemed to think that our motto should be “The more the merrier!” I imagined that he had secretly tested some of the home cooking beforehand, and rather envied him his position as taster.
“‘The guests were met; the table set. I had made sure that the wines were all right. As I looked along at the happy, friendly faces I felt that a home dinner was the most pleasant, after all. The soup tureen was before me, and I lifted the cover with the anxious pride of a Wellington firing the first gun at Waterloo.
“‘The chance simile of a battle holds good; for the soup was awfully smoky. Somebody said that it tasted like a chimney on fire. The fish was worse. The roast beef was uneatable. Persistent as I naturally am, I gave up the attempt to carve the turkey. The pudding was as hard as a stone. What little appetite remained to us was lost while carving the meats and passing the plates around. I had felt like Wellington before Waterloo; but, when the dinner was over, I could appreciate the despair of the defeated Napoleon.
“‘Had we been only a family party the fiasco would not have been so fatal; but, as I told you, I had invited epicures; I had dragged my friends from their comfortable homes on Christmas Day to partake of this terrible repast. Some of them have never quite forgiven me. Some have forgiven me, because I had a chance to take them aside and put all the blame upon Stoker. But nobody who was present can ever have forgotten it.
“‘Like Napoleon, I retreated to Fontainebleau,—I fell back upon the wines. One of the guests won my heart by loudly eulogizing the cheese and the crackers. They were not home-made. They had not been cooked in the theatre!
“‘Here comes Stoker,’ continued Mr. Irving, relapsing into his curious solemnity of manner; ‘let us ask him about it.
“‘I say, Stoker, do you remember the home dinner you gave us at the Lyceum last Christmas?’
“Mr. Stoker stopped on his way across the stage, and stood like a statue of amazement, of indignation, of outraged virtue. ‘The dinner _I_ gave you?’ he at last exclaimed. Then his loyalty to his chief triumphed, and he added, ‘Well, you may call it my dinner, if you like; but I have the original copy of the bill of fare in your own handwriting.’