“Now, Marta, take in the coffee and milk.”
She heard Harry coming down stairs, and looking at the clock saw it was three minutes past one.
“Going up to dress did that,” she thought, “but it is not so bad, yet I am sorry Marta has the bad example.”
“Odors of Araby the blest!” quoted Harry, as Molly, divested of her apron, the omelette in hand, followed him into the dining-room. “I smell coffee!—real aromatic coffee!”
He stood and surveyed the pretty lunch table, looked at the Delmonico-like salad, the Frenchy omelette, and then at Molly.
“Humph, is this all cooking-school, or is it part caterer,—if there is such a being in Greenfield?”
“It is part cooking-school, and a tiny bit Molly,” said the young wife. “No, indeed, I have no acquaintance with caterers.”
“This omelette should not palpitate its excellence away; shall I help you, dear?”
“No; I devote myself to salad”—then to Marta, who was waiting, uncertain what to do:
“Marta, go into the kitchen and wash up, in quite hot water, the soiled pans and dishes.”