“Is she coming?”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, “it’s all right. Don’t all talk at once; let me tell you. She can’t come until to-morrow, but she’ll be here early—before breakfast.”
“Then we’ve got to wash the dishes to-night, haven’t we?” groaned Jessie.
“Never mind, my pretty Scullery-maid,” said Betty; “you needn’t do it: you can put them away with neatness and despatch.” And Jessie beamed again.
“Can you guess what we’re going to have for supper?” said Marjorie.
“Guess!” said Nan. “I should think we could! Why, we met the announcement three blocks up the street, and it led us all the way home, like the Israelites’ pillar of fire. Is supper ready?”
“Yes,” chimed a chorus; and in less time than it takes to tell it the feast was on the table.
“You sit at the head, Duchess,” said Betty, “and I’ll sit at the foot and carve, for none of the rest of you know how. The fair Scullery-maid can sit at my right hand in case I need her assistance, Nan and Daisy next, then Millicent at Marjorie’s right, and then Helen and Hester; and there you are!”
There they were indeed, and a merrier meal was never eaten by the Blue Ribbon Cooking Club.
The prosaic onions were pronounced better than any complicated French concoction, and were portioned out with exact fairness by the conscientious Betty.