"Beck, you're a pig!" Lottie Payson's arms were about Celia. "In her own house, too, and her first party. Really you're too——"
A coloured maid stood in the doorway—a South Side Hebe—her ebony face grotesque between the lacy cap and apron with which Celia had adorned her for the day. She made mysterious signals in Celia's direction.
"'F yo' ladies come in ev'thin's all—" She smiled; a sudden gash of white in the black. The tantalizing scent of freshly made coffee filled the little flat. They moved toward the dining room, talking, laughing, pretending.
"Oh, how pretty!... Cele! A real party! Candles and everything.... What a stunning pattern—your silver. So plain and yet so rich.... My word! Chicken salad! Bang goes another pound!"
Chicken salad indeed. Little hot flaky biscuits, too, bearing pools of golden butter within. Great black oily ripe olives. Salted almonds in silver dishes. Coffee with rich yellow cream. A whipped-cream covered icebox cake.
"I think we ought to spank Beck and send her from the table. She doesn't deserve this."
At five-thirty, as they stood, hatted and ready for the street, chorusing their good-byes in the little hallway, a key clicked in the lock. Orville!
They looked a little self-conscious.
"Well, well, well! I've run into a harem!"
"We haven't left a thing for your dinner. And it was so good."