Now, if Norah hadn’t been cross, she would have said, “A caller, me darlint,” and Betsey knew it. She took a delicate bite out of a jumble and began cautiously, “Good deal of cooking going on, isn’t there, Norah?”
“A big sight of it,” agreed Norah. “But it’s me that is equal to it.”
“Norah,” said Betsey suddenly, “do you happen to know how paperhangers make their paste?”
“Flour,” said Norah, “stirred in cold water; then hot water till it’s just right. It’s many the time I’ve made it for me brother Terence.”
“I’m thinking,” said Betsey thoughtfully, “of papering a new room.”
Norah stopped wiping a milk bottle, put her hands on her hips, and laughed heartily.
“You’re the cute darlint! Will I be after making ye some paste? Yes, and I will, if the pies never get made!” And kind Norah sifted the flour and stirred and stirred, until she could hand Betsey a bright tin pail full of hot paste as smooth as cream. And when she saw the smile on Betsey’s face, she was thanked enough.
Mr. Betts walked into his shop with his pail, and put on a long-sleeved blue apron. He selected a long paintbrush, and a can of white paint.
“While my paste cools,” he said, “I will begin the marble floor in the bathroom.”
“A marble floor!” exclaimed Mr. Delight. “How extremely rich!”