“Well, I declare,” she said after a minute or two, “it’s a funny thing that I have to buy eggs, with my yard full of hens! This is a state of things unheard of till you came into the house, my young lady!”
Francie looked up and saw that this was meant as a pleasantry.
“Is it me? I wouldn’t touch an egg to save my life!”
“Maybe you wouldn’t,” replied Charlotte with the same excessive jocularity, “but you can give tea-parties, and treat your friends to sponge-cakes that are made with nothing but eggs!”
Francie scented danger in the air, and having laughed nervously to show appreciation of the jest, tried to change the conversation.
“How do you feel to-day, Charlotte?” she asked, working away at her stocking with righteous industry; “is your headache gone? I forgot to ask after it at breakfast.”
“Headache? I’d forgotten I’d ever had one. Three tabloids of antipyrin and a good night’s rest; that was all I wanted to put me on my pegs again. But if it comes to that, me dear child, I’d trouble you to tell me what makes you the colour of blay calico last night and this morning? It certainly wasn’t all the cake you had at afternoon tea. I declare I was quite vexed when I saw that lovely cake in the larder, and not a bit gone from it.”
Francie coloured. “I was up very early yesterday making that cross, and I daresay that tired me. Tell me, did Mr. Lambert say anything about it? Did he like it?”
Charlotte looked at her, but could discern no special expression in the piquant profile that was silhouetted against the light.
“He had other things to think of besides your wreath,” she said coarsely; “when a man’s wife isn’t cold in her coffin, he has something to think of besides young ladies’ wreaths!”