“The cook took French leave this afternoon,” she explained cheerfully, when the noisy greetings were over, “and we couldn’t have much of anything for dinner because she took my cook-book with her, the wretch! I’ve sent my husband off to buy another, so I can find out about boiling the eggs for breakfast. You wipe, Betty; and Bob, you and Babe go down cellar and find some drift-wood for the library fire. It’s piled up near the furnace. Georgia, you can be putting away the dishes.”
“The same old Mary!” laughed Bob. “Does your husband enjoy being ordered around?”
“Of course,” said Mary sweetly. “He considers it a privilege just as you always did, Bob. Be sure you bring up plenty of wood.”
Five minutes later Mary divested herself of her apron, unpinned her train, and explaining sorrowfully that if she sat on the floor it always attracted faculty callers, established herself in a carved oak chair and ordered her guests to “fire away.”
“Well, to begin with, Babe’s engaged,” announced Bob.
“Oh, you mean thing!” cried Babe. “I wanted to tell that myself.”
“No, you ought to have let Betty,” declared Babbie with decision, “as her reward for telling Mr. Morton, you know.”
“All right,” agreed Babe. “You tell the rest, Betty.”
“Somebody tell it quick,” begged Mary plaintively. “I’m dying of curiosity.”
So Betty “told quick,” and Bob aroused Babe’s wrath by reminding her how it had all been prophesied just after Mary’s wedding.