“Evelyn will be raked over the coals,” said Nannie in a low, intense voice.
Evelyn's handsome face flushed and her lips parted for a retort, but Hilda exclaimed:
“Puddy will be made into delicious round croquets,” and she smacked her lips with anticipatory relish.
“Hilda'll be kept in a nice continual stew,” retorted Puddy.
“Nannie'll be parboiled, fried, fricasseed——” began Hilda, but Nannie exclaimed:
“No, I'll be roasted—you see if I'm not!”
“Prue will be baked in a genteel, modern way,” said Evelyn.
“Yes!” shouted Hilda, to get above the noise. “Girls, mark my words. Some day Mr. Smith, Brown, or Jones, whoever he is, will invite us all to a clambake, and when we arrive we'll find it's just dear old Prue served up.”
This hit at Prudence's usual silence struck the company forcibly, and after a little more from the recipe they broke up with noisy mirth.
On the doorstep Nannie paused and looked about her. Puddy's last extract from the article under discussion was wandering through her brain, something as a cat wanders through a strange house.