Presently she unplucked the dough from her fingers and began to spread it out on the large, flat stone, patting it smooth with the palm of her hand. Thereafter, she made a pattern round its edges with a doll's fork, as she had seen cook do.
"I wish I could make puddings like you," said Poppy, lying on her elbow and eating her orange.
"I can make nicer ones'n this," said Cinthie boastfully. "I can make Best-pudding-of-all."
"Oh, do tell me, Cinthie, so when I have nine children I can make it for them too."
Cinthie looked at her dreamfully.
"Perhaps you won't have any children," she said. "Perhaps you'll be a widow."
"Oh, Cinthie, don't be unkind—of course, I shall have some! Go on now, tell me about the pudding."
Cinthie rubbed her nose and reflected for a long time. At last, solemnly, with a long think between each sentence, she delivered the recipe.
"Get some dough ... dip it in water for a minute or two ... get some pastry ... dip it into water twice ... roll it hard ... put it into the dish on top of everything—" Long pause.
"Yes?"