The luncheon was daintily served. Betty had garnished the salad with nasturtium leaves and red blossoms, and edged the platter of cold chicken with a wreath of parsley.
They had taken out the Careys’ best china and cut glass, and the table looked lovely indeed.
“My! What a spread!” said Hal, looking admiringly at it. “I didn’t suppose you could do things like that.”
“Why not?” said Betty, turning wondering eyes on him. “What made you think I couldn’t?”
Hal reddened a little, but said honestly:
“’Cause Lena said you’re such a fearfully rich girl, and I sort of thought you’d be—oh, you know—above fussing in the kitchen.”
Betty laughed merrily.
“I love fussing in the kitchen,” she said, “and I think every girl ought to know how to cook. At least she ought to have sense enough to get together a cold luncheon like this when everything’s provided.”
“Yes, I know; but you’ve made everything look so pretty. I want to eat dishes and all!”
Betty dimpled with pleasure at his praise, and they sat down to the pretty feast, to which they did full justice.