The day had been cool even out in the sunshine and they had been glad when their crackling fire was made on the river bank. But in this damp, big room there was a biting quality out of all proportion to the temperature outside.
“It’s not—at—all—cold,” stammered Peggy, through chattering teeth, trying to make her tone of everyday courtesy like that Mr. Huntington had used.
“I just wanted to invite you to something,” she plunged bravely into her mission. “It’s a special treat to be given by our cooking class of Andrews school.”
“To invite—?” Mr. Huntington looked vaguely puzzled and alarmed. “My dear young lady,” he protested, “I haven’t been invited to anything in twenty years.” Then an understanding look came over his face. “Oh, I see,” he murmured. “How much are the tickets?”
“Oh,” cried Peggy, hurt and chagrined, “oh, there are no tickets—oh, no, that’s not the way it is at all. You see the cooking class is—awfully proud of itself and we can stand burned hands and horrid blackened dishes that we couldn’t at first. And we can get awfully good dinners, too. So we thought that instead of just getting them up at school and eating them ourselves, we’d give a series of parties around at the homes of the girls and the trustees of the school and I—I thought we’d come and give one at your house, too,” she wound up breathlessly.
The old man looked as surprised as she could have hoped.
“But there is no young girl here who goes to the school,” he said finally, “and I am not a trustee.”
And all of a sudden the explanation that Peggy had thought so complete showed itself up at its true value, nothing at all.
“N—no,” she admitted, crestfallen, “that’s so.”
The misery in her face made Mr. Huntington want to do something for her.