Mother paused on her way past the playroom door, and listened. She knew Betsey did not have company, and yet there was a sound of three voices,—first a pleasant deep, bass voice, and then a pleasant silvery little voice, and then a pleasant low bark. Mother pushed open the door very softly and looked in.
There lay Betsey on the great fur rug, with her curly head propped up on her hand. Before her stood the low, broad Morris chair, divided into two rooms. Mother knew it must be a bedroom at the back, on account of the funny bed made of a box-cover, and covered with a gay patchwork quilt, Betsey’s very first piece of sewing. And nobody could possibly mistake the dining-room in front, with its large red pasteboard table, and little Mrs. Delight at one end, and her cute little husband at the other. Black Dinah stood by the table, smiling as usual, ready to serve a large platter of salad, and Dumpling Delight barked gruffly once in a while, because there were so many tantalizing smells in the air.
“Will you have a breaded chop, my dear?” asked Mr. Delight.
“Yes, thank you, William. Will you have some of the creamed oysters?”
“And some of dis yeah lobster salad?” inquired Dinah.
“WILL YOU HAVE A BREADED CHOP, MY DEAR?”
(“Mercy,” thought Mother, behind the door, “what a dinner!”)
“I’ll tell you what I wish,” said Mr. Delight with a deep cough, “I wish we could invite your sister Prudence and her husband to spend a week with us.”
“Where in name hebben would you put comp’ny, now, Massa Willyum? I ask you dat,” demanded Dinah.