“I asked Mr. Howbridge to come to advise us about forming the society,” Ruth said. “I thought it best to start right. If we are going to be of any use as a Civic Betterment Club in Milton we must be on a firm foundation, and—”
“Hear! Hear!” interrupted Agnes, banging on the table with an agate mixing spoon, and thereby bringing from a deep pantry the form and face of Mrs. MacCall, the sturdy Scotch housekeeper.
“Please don’t do that!” begged Ruth.
“Hoots! Whut’s meanin’ wi’ the rattlin’ an’ thumpin’?” demanded Mrs. MacCall.
“Oh, some nonsense of Agnes’,” answered Ruth. “I was just telling her that I had asked the girls to luncheon, to talk over the new Civic Betterment Club, and that Mr. Howbridge is coming to advise us how to get a charter, or incorporate, or whatever is proper and—”
“I was only applauding after the fashion in the English Parliament,” interrupted Agnes. “They always say ‘Hear! Hear!’ away down in their throats.”
“Well, they don’t bang on tables with granite spoons,” retorted Ruth, as she handed a pie to Linda, the humming Finnish maid, who popped it into the oven, quickly shutting the door, to allow none of the heat to escape.
“Hoot! I would not put it past ’em, I would not!” murmured Mrs. MacCall. “What those English law makers do—I wouldna’ put it past them!” and, shaking her head, she retired into the deep pantry again.
“Well, you’re going to have enough of sweets, I should say;” observed Agnes, “even as fond as Mr. Howbridge is of them. For the land’s sake, aren’t you going to stop?” she demanded, as Ruth poured into a dish the cake batter she had begun to stir as soon as the pie was completed.
“This is the last. You don’t need to stay and help me any longer if you don’t want to, dear. Run out and play,” urged Ruth sweetly.