The coffee being ground, she gave the salad to Marta to take to the ice-box for the twenty minutes that would elapse before lunch-time, while she broke three eggs and separated them, and when Marta returned gave her the whites to beat to a high froth. While she was doing that, Molly got the frying-pan, put a table-spoonful of butter in it, and set both to get hot; then she poured boiling water through the coffee-pot (in case it might not have been used lately), threw it out, and put two full table-spoonfuls of coffee (ground much finer than the grocer does it, being, in fact, about like coarse corn meal) into the fine strainer, replaced the coarse one over it, and then took a tin pint measure, filled it with boiling water, and poured half into the coffee-pot; the other half she set on the stove to keep at boiling-point, while the first dripped through; then she put half a pint of milk to boil, and, seeing the butter was melted, she drew back the frying-pan that it might not burn till the omelette was ready.
Marta had not yet reached the point of snow with the whites of eggs, and Molly took them from her to finish herself.
“Now, Marta, put that little fringed napkin on the dish, and with a fork take up those biscuits.”
She watched her while she performed her task, dropping two or three on the floor, of course, but that did not ruffle Molly’s good temper, for she knew the girl could not have been accustomed to doing things daintily,—that if she followed her instinct, it would no doubt be to tumble them all out pell-mell together.
“Now take those to the table, set them on the mat I showed you, and come back at once.”
The eggs were now ready, and as the omelette was to be the very last thing cooked, she poured the rest of the water on the coffee, told Marta to get the waiter ready, and then pour the boiling milk into the pitcher and set it on it.
“Now, Marta, take the chicken salad into the dining-room, and at the same time take the melon from the ice-box and bring it here as you come back.”
The coffee had now all dripped through; she took a cup and poured it full of coffee, and then poured it back to run through again,—then she directed Marta to cut the melon in half, remove the seeds, and lay the halves in a dish with a piece of ice in each half. Knowing Marta would not understand cracking ice, Molly had put some ready, when she had gone for the bowl and egg for mayonnaise.
“Now, Marta, I will run up stairs and get ready for lunch; while I am gone take the melon into the dining-room and put it on the table at the side opposite the biscuit. Remember, at luncheon everything may go on the table at once. The butter is ready on a dish in the ice-box; place that, and by that time I will be down.”
Molly had worn a homespun walking-dress, and it had been the custom of herself and friend, Mrs. Welles, to try and emulate the neatness of the teacher at the cooking-school they had attended, who dressed handsomely, wore no apron, and left her class spotless. They had attained to great neatness, but Molly found herself more comfortable in a large apron. She did not yet remove it, but put on a clean collar, arranged a stray curl, and washed her face and hands, then ran down to finish her omelette. She put the frying-pan back to a hot place, stirred the yolks of eggs with a good pinch of salt and a little pepper, and mixed them gently with the whites, and poured both into the pan, which she turned about that the mixture might run into every part; and when it was “set” underneath, she lifted one side, tilted the pan and allowed the uncooked custard to run into its place; this she kept on doing, always turning the cooked part toward the centre, until in three minutes it was a light custard-like mass; then, with a cake-turner, she folded one side over and slipped the doubled omelette on to a hot dish, where it lay, a delicate golden-brown mound.