"I'd say open 'em up to-night and not be stingy," said Reginald, following Watson with greedy eyes.
Melissa glared at him. "Just for that I ought to hold back your share of the chicken dumplings, young man!" Then she got quite red in the face. Mr. Bingle was looking at her in amazement.
"Chicken dumplings?" he murmured.
"Well, you see, sir," said Melissa, "I thought as how it wouldn't matter to you if I went out on my own hook and got a few things for a Christmas Eve dinner—just a couple of nice fat hens, and some asparagus, and parsley, and sweet potatoes, and—well, just a few little things like that. Thinks I, we can't afford to let these children go away without a bang-up meal in their little insides, so's nobody could think they was ever hungry in their lives, and so this morning I just stepped out and—oh, yes, I forgot, sir, I DID get a few hot house grapes and one or two other trifles, just to make it seem real, not to mention some celery and olives and fruitcakes."
"Quite the thing, Melissa," said Diggs approvingly. "Quite the thing, my dear. And did the men deliver the ham and firewood I—ahem! I beg pardon!"
"Are we to have firewood for dinner to-night, Diggs?" inquired Mr. Bingle, his voice trembling a little despite his good-natured smile.
"Oh, you stupid, blundering English," cried Melissa in a voice that shrivelled Diggs.
"That's it, sir, I AM a stupid, blundering Englishman right enough. Blooming fool, sir, if you please. I didn't hintend to mention anythink but the ham. The confounded firewood slipped in, sir. 'Owever, I trust you'll overlook it, sir."
"I'm not overlooking firewood in this weather, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle drily. "Won't you sit down? Excuse me for not—"
"Oh, no, sir, thank you. I 'ave my duties to perform. Really, sir, I—"