"That's it."
"You don't mean that you were born on my birthday?"
"I always kind o' calculated you were born on mine."
When Judidy, attired in a purple and yellow silk gown over which she wore a black silk apron embroidered in blue forget-me-nots, rose to change the plates, with an expression of the most intense self-consciousness, Grandmother rose also, and the two exchanged signals.
"If I understood dumb show a little better," Grandfather said, slyly, "I might be inclined to think that Mother had something hid out in the kitchen, and Judidy had an errand in the pantry, but o' course I probably got it all mixed up."
"Well," Grandmother smiled, "seeing as the same thing has come o' the pantry every June thirtieth for forty-five years, it ain't anyways likely that you know anything about it." She bustled off to the kitchen, to reappear with a mound of ice-cream in which the strawberries were embedded, like so many perfect emeries.
"I like ice-cream better than anything in the world," Elizabeth said.
"I like it better than fathers and mothers and sisters and intimate friends, but not better than grandparents, especially not grandparents when one of them is celebrating its birthday," Peggy declared, "Now, I'm getting silly. Will somebody stop me, please? Oh, look! Look at Judidy!"
That flushed and excited young woman was approaching the table with the air of a standard bearer. In her arms she carried a big tray lined with white paper lace, and on it was set a marvellous erection of cake—a big round of chocolate confection lettered in pink, and further adorned by blazing pink candles. She placed it in front of Elizabeth.
"Time was when I had a cake to myself on my birthday," Grandfather grumbled.