But it was spoiled: no mere words 206 could alter the fact. Try as she would to put the letter out of her mind and think only of how to do a dozen things at once one quarter as quickly and skilfully as Laura and Aunt Jessica did them, which is what the apparently simple process of dishing up a dinner means, the fine thrill of the enterprise was gone. Laura came in to help her and Elliott’s tongue tripped briskly through a deal of chatter, but all the while underneath there was a little undercurrent of uneasiness and anxiety. Wouldn’t you have thought it would delight her to have the opportunity of doing what she had so much wished to do?
“What’s this?” Laura asked, spying the white envelop on the floor; “a letter?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elliott, “one I dropped,” and she tucked it into the pocket of the white skirt that had been all the time under the blue apron, giving it a vindictive little slap as she did so. Which, of 207 course, was quite uncalled for, as if any one was responsible for what was in the letter, that person was Elliott Cameron. The fact that she knew this very well only added a little extra vigor to the slap.
And all through dinner she sat and laughed and chattered away, exactly as though she weren’t conscious in every nerve of the letter in her pocket, despite the fact that she didn’t know a word it said. But she didn’t eat much: the taste of food seemed to choke her. Her gaze wandered from Mother Jess to Father Bob and back, around the circle of eager, happy, alert faces. And she felt—poor Elliott!—as though her first discontent were a boomerang now returned to stab her.
“This is Elliott’s dinner, I would have you all know,” announced Laura when the pie was served. “She did it all herself.”
“Not every bit,” said Elliott, honestly; 208 but her disclaimer was lost in the chorus of praise.
Father Bob laid down his fork, looking pleased. “Did you, indeed? Now, this is what I call a well-cooked dinner.”
“I’ll give you a recommend for a cook,” drawled Stannard, “and eat my words about tightening my belt, too.”
“Some dinner!” Bruce commented.
“Please, I’d like another piece,” said Priscilla.