“Ugh!” ejaculated Clotilde. “I hate cold mutton. Is there no pudding?”
“Yes; it’s pudding day.”
“That’s better. What pudding is it?”
Markes shook her head.
“Tell me, and I’ll give you a kiss,” said Clotilde.
“If your aunts was to hear you talk like that they’d have fits,” grumbled the woman. “It’s rice-pudding.”
“Baked?”
“No.”
“Boiled in milk?”
“No—plain boiled.”