Riding in a han-som!”—
parodied Haze.
“And driven by Samuels,—with an s, if you please, Miss Brown,” mocked Ernie, wickedly.
“Children! children!” warned mother. “We must be serious. It is Mrs. Bo-gardus, you know;—and I had planned cold veal for luncheon!”
“Not even chicken?” pleaded Ernestine.
The situation as one faced it loomed portentous. The psychic power of that Name was not to be lightly evaded.
“Well,” said mother, at last, with a little sigh, “we must do the best we can. Elizabeth will help me in the kitchen, Rose is never the least good of a Monday, and Ernestine can dress Robin and superintend the setting of the table. Let me see, there will be six, seven, of us,—eliminating Haze and Mr. Hancock, who fortunately do not lunch at home. I like an even table so much better.”
“Let me wait then, mother dear,” volunteered Ernie. “The way I do Sunday evenings when Rose is out. You know she never does serve things properly.”
“You would not mind?” asked mother.
“No, indeed; not a bit,” answered Ernie, frankly. “Everybody will know I am your daughter, just the same, and I think it is rather fun.”