“Bridget has made them into omelette at least twice a day lately, until it seems to me I can’t stand the sight of them, Hester. And the more we have to make frosting the worse it gets. Either we’ve got to throw them away in rank extravagance or keep on eating them and die. I wish we could think of something to do with them!”
“If we only could afford to buy oil, Bridget would make us some salad-dressing.”
“But we can’t afford it. Poor Bridget, that is her one accomplishment. She says she learned it from mamma, who was famous for it.”
“Good gracious, Julie!” the practical Hester ejaculated, “don’t take to ‘reminiscing’ with that far-away look in your eyes. You’ll be weighing salt instead of sugar.”
“I am not ‘reminiscing’—I am thinking. Why can’t we make mayonnaise and sell it?”
“What!”
“Don’t drop dead with astonishment, you chief cook and bottle-washer, because I have an idea. What do you think of it?”
“Ye gods, but wouldn’t that be a scheme! Bridget could teach us—you know how Daddy’s friends always said they never got such salads at any other table!”
“Don’t ‘reminisce,’ my dear.”
“We’ll get the grocers to sell it,” disdaining to notice the pretended rebuke, “just as they do pickles and things. We’ll put it up in nice bottles, and——”