"Oh, dear, no—the cook."
"Ah, of course! Pray pardon me, I might have known."
The little hostess inclined her head. "Take plenty of butter. 'Cause batter bread isn't good 'thout butter."
"Thank you—what lovely golden butter. And—goodness gracious! What is this I see before me? Can this really be a sausage?"
"Yes, sir," laughed Virgie with delight. "And there's the ham. I smoked it myself over hick'ry wood. Please help yourself."
She pretended to arrange a cup and saucer in front of her and held daintily in her fingers a pair of imaginary sugar tongs.
"Coffee? How many lumps? And do you take cream?"
"Five, please—and a little cream. There—just right."
She passed the cup gracefully and added a little moue of concern for the efficiency of her ménage.
"I'm afraid you won't find it very hot," said this surprising young hostess. "That butler of mine is growing absolutely wuthless."