“H’m!” said Marjorie, as the not over-bounteous-looking bowl was placed before her. “I see the salads are also to be served individually. Mine looks very nice.”
“No, no!” cried Nan; but Marguerite laughed gaily and said: “Why, you girls would ruin a hotel proprietor. How can you want so much to eat? No, madam; we offer you a variety in our service. The salad is to be served at table.”
Just then Rosie brought eight plates, and by careful division the Duchess portioned to each about a tablespoonful of salad.
“There’s really plenty of it, after all,” said Betty, laying down her fork after the first taste.
“Why?” said Marguerite, hurriedly trying hers. “Oh, it’s scorched, isn’t it? Well, you see, it burned a little while it was cooking, but I thought we scraped the burnt part all off. Queer how that scorchy taste permeates the whole thing!”
“Take it away, Rosie,” said Marjorie; “remove the smoked salad and delight our eyes with the next course.”
The next delicacy seemed to be a great bowl of yellow custard.
“Dessert already?” said Jessie. “Oh, perhaps we’re having one of those backward dinners. I’ve read about them. You begin with coffee and end with soup, you know.”
“I love custard,” said Millicent. “What do we eat it on?”
“It’s—it’s a snow pudding,” faltered Nan.