From the kitchen closet beyond came the clatter of dishwashing, the interminable splashing of water, and stacking of plates, punctuated by the occasional clang of smashing glass or pottery. She had discharged two dishwashers in less than two weeks’ time, with the natural feeling that any change in that department must be for the better, but the present incumbent was even more incompetent than his predecessors. Even Nancy’s impregnable nerves began to feel the strain of the continual clamorous assault on them.
Betty appeared in the doorway that led directly from the restaurant stairs.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said. “Don’t blame Michael, I’m breaking my parole to get in here. He locked me in and made me swear I’d keep out of the kitchen before he’d let me 127 out at all, but I had to tell you this. The tomato soup has curdled and you ought not to serve it any more.”
“Well, I thought it looked rather funny,” Nancy moaned.
“It won’t do anybody any harm, you know. It just looks bad, and a lot of people are kicking about it. Did Molly tell you about the old fellow that got tipsy on the peaches?”
“No, she didn’t. I sent Michael out for some ripe peaches and other fruit to serve instead.”
“That’s a good idea. How’s the food holding out? There are lots of people you know up-stairs,” she rattled on, for Nancy, who was getting more and more distraught with each disquieting detail, made no pretense of answering her. “Dolly has probably kept you informed. Dick’s aunt is here, and that terribly highbrow cousin of Caroline’s; and that good-looking young surgeon that suddenly got so famous last winter, and admired you so much. Dr. Sunderland—isn’t that his name? I never saw Collier Pratt here for lunch before. There’s a little girl with him, too.”
“Collier Pratt?” Nancy cried, “Oh, Betty, he isn’t here. He couldn’t be. Don’t frighten 128 me with any such nonsense. He never comes here in the day-time.”
“He is though,” Betty said, “and a queer-looking little child with him, a dark-eyed little thing dressed in black satin.”
“It seems a good deal to me as if you were making that up,” Nancy cried in exasperation; “it’s so much the kind of thing you do make up.”