“She can’t. She’s busy getting it going just at present. She may appear later.”
“Somebody’s got to direct this pageant, old top,” Billy reminded him.
“The soup is perfect,” Caroline said seriously. “It is simple—with that deceptive simplicity of a Paris morning frock.”
“French home cooking is all like that,” Dick said. “I like purée of forget-me-nots!”
“Molly or Dolly, I can’t tell the difference between you,” Billy said, “extend our compliments to Miss Martin, and tell her that this course is a triumph.”
“Wait till you see the roast, sir.”
“It’s the very best sirloin,” Dick announced 45 at the first mouthful, “and these assorted vegetables all cut down to the same size are as pretty as they are good, as one says of virtuous innocence.”
“This variety of asparagus is expensive,” Caroline said; “she can’t do things like this at seventy-five cents a head. She’ll ruin herself.”
“I don’t see how she can,” Dick said thoughtfully, “with the price of foodstuffs soaring sky-high.”
“I never for a moment expected it to pay,” Betty said, “but think of the run she will have for her money, and the experience we’ll get out of it.”