“Macaroni.”
“Macaroons.”
“He doesn’t keep those; the baker does. Don’t let’s order any more things now; I’m all mixed up.”
Mr. Fenn went away well pleased with his order, and Millicent dropped into a kitchen chair exhausted.
“Girls,” said Hester, “you’ve run up an awful big order; do you suppose it will cost all our money?”
“Oh, no,” said the wise and matronly Marguerite, shaking her halo; “and, besides, most of those things won’t need to be ordered again; the staples will last us all the time we’re here. Now when they bring the bills I’ll fix up my accounts. I have a little red book, real Russia, and I’ll have a page for each department. Are these committees standing ones, Miss President?”
“Oh, no!” said Marjorie, “we’ll take turns at things. I don’t want to order groceries again. I’m quite worn out.”
“Poor Margy! ‘Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,’ ” sang Nan, catching Marjorie about the waist and dancing round the kitchen with her.
“Oh, I am so hungry!” pleaded Betty. “Can’t we get out the silver and table-cloth and set the table now?”
“Yes, come on; I love to set a table,” said Nan. “But oh, how I hate to wash dishes! I thought we were going to have an Irish lady to do that, eh, Marjorie?”