“I can make corn fritters, miss. Shall I be afther doin’ ’em?” said Rosie.
“Oh, do,” cried Nan, still beating away for dear life; “and get the frying-pan on the stove—it wants to be awfully hot.”
And then, somehow, the things got done: the snow pudding was nearly a success; the cauliflower salad looked fine; and as for Rosie’s corn fritters, they were of a melting golden brown that appealed very strongly to the two hungry cooks.
“How many are there, Rosie?” asked Nan, eyeing the pile.
“Thirteen, miss; the corn wouldn’t make no more.”
“Thirteen! An unlucky number!” exclaimed Marguerite. “Nannie, let’s eat one, and offer our friends a decent dozen.”
“All right,” said Nan, and a fritter was carefully halved and eaten with a relish.
“Those are simply great!” said Marguerite, with a hungry glance at the heaped-up plate. “You like them, don’t you, Rosie?”
“No, ma’am; I never touches corn in any way.”
“You don’t! Now see here, Nan; we would, of course, have left two for Rosie, and since she doesn’t care for them, and the girls haven’t come yet, let’s you and I eat Rosie’s share now.”