"Don't appear to know what we're bein' fed with here. Wonder what this is? It's little enough to be a side bone o' cat. Must be all right, though; Mis' Taggess is eatin' hern."
A form of blanc-mange was another mystery. Said one woman to another:—
"It must be the ice-cream the soldiers told about, for it's powerful cold, besides bein' powerful good."
"That's so," was the reply; "but 'pears to me I didn't hear the men say nothin' about there bein' gravy poured on theirn."
Some of the guests were becoming full to their extreme capacity,—a condition which stimulates geniality in some natures, ugliness in others. They had come to criticise—to learn of their hostess's extravagance. They had remained in the parlor only long enough to be entirely overcome by its magnificence and to exchange whispered remarks about the shameful waste of money wrung from the hard-working farmers.
The dinner had been good beyond their wildest expectations; not the best Fourth of July picnic refreshments, or even the memorable dinner given by Squire Burress, the richest farmer in the county, when his daughter was married, compared with it. What was so good must also have been very expensive. Criticism must begin with something, and the blanc-mange seemed a proper subject to one woman, who was reputed to be very religious. So she groaned:—
"This—whatever it is—is so awful good that it must ha' been sinful costly—actually sinful."
"Yes, indeed," sighed another. "One might say, a wicked waste o' money."
"Blanc-mange?—costly?" Grace said, curbing an indignant impulse; "why, 'tis nothing but corn-starch, milk, sugar, and a little flavoring. I wonder what dessert dish could be cheaper!"