Betty found it very hard to keep her mind on the preparations for supper. Dorothy’s happy little babble of questions and frantic efforts to “help” with everything, drove her to the verge of distraction. Betty wanted some crackers and coffee and a chance to write to Madeline—Babbie had not yet sent any address, and was, besides, too far away to help much in the present crisis. But Dorothy insisted upon creamed chicken on toast and hot chocolate, and wished to treat strawberry jam as an entrée and have “regular dessert” besides. Betty acquiesced in all her demands not so much from good-nature as because she was sure that another flood of tears would come the minute she said no. But she couldn’t make ice-cream, which was Dorothy’s idea of “regular dessert,” and not a bit had been left over from the day’s sales.
“Just remember how you love ‘whips,’” she coaxed, and made one out of her share of the cream for the chocolate.
Dorothy watched the proceedings suspiciously.
“Well, but a ‘whip’ always has jelly in the bottom,” she objected.
Betty suggested using strawberry jam.
“Not that kind—real jelly. I shall be sick of strawberry jam if I have it so much.”
Betty sighed despairingly, and then smiled. “All right, we’ll turn it into charlotte russe,” she said, “with this big slice of cake underneath.”
Dorothy wanted to know which was Charlotte—the cake or the cream—and Betty craftily encouraged the discussion, so that little Dorothy would enjoy her dessert and not notice that she was taking all the cream away from Betty, which would have distressed her dreadfully.
“And now we’ll pile the dishes up, and Bridget will do them in the morning,” Betty suggested, when they had finished.
“Oh, let’s do them ourselves and s’prise Bridget,” objected Dorothy, who was beginning to surmise that Betty was in a hurry to be rid of her. No matter how sleepy she was, Dorothy never wanted to go to bed, and to-night she was wide awake.