Mrs. Morse looked the picture of despair, and indeed it was not surprising that she should. But while she had been talking to Clementine, Patty had been doing some quick thinking.
“Mrs. Morse,” she said, “if you will trust me, I will cook your luncheon for you. I can do it perfectly well and I will engage to have everything ready at half-past one, if I can go right to work.”
“My dear child, you’re crazy. Everything is all prepared to be cooked, but it is by no means a plain every-day meal. There are quail to be broiled, lobster Newburg to be prepared, salad dressing, soup, coffee, and no end of things to be looked after, besides a most elaborate dessert from the confectioner’s which has to be properly arranged. So you see, though I appreciate your kind offer of help, it is outside the possibilities.”
Patty’s eyes danced as she heard this list of the fancy dishes in which her soul delighted.
“Please let me do it, Mrs. Morse,” she begged; “I know how to do everything you’ve mentioned, and with Clementine to help me I’ll send up the dishes exactly as they should be.”
“But I don’t know a thing about cooking,” exclaimed Clementine, in dismay.
“I don’t want you to help me cook; I’ll do that. I just want you to help me beat eggs or chop parsley or things like that. You must promise to obey my orders strictly and quickly; then there’ll be no trouble of any kind. Truly, Mrs. Morse, I can do it and do it right.”
Patty’s air of assurance convinced Mrs. Morse, and though it seemed absurd, the poor lady was so anxious to believe in this apparent miracle that she consented.
“Why, Patty,” she said, “if you really can do it, it would be a perfect godsend to me to have you.”
“Indeed I can,” said Patty, who was already turning up the sleeves of her shirt-waist by way of preparation. “Just give me a big apron and wait one minute while I telephone to Grandma not to expect me home to luncheon, and then show me the way to the kitchen.”