“No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,” said Marilla, pushing him toward the hall.
“What shall we do for dessert?” asked Anne, looking regretfully at the wreck and ruin.
“Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,” said Marilla consolingly. “There’s plenty of whipped cream left in the bowl for it.”
One o’clock came . . . but no Priscilla or Mrs. Morgan. Anne was in an agony. Everything was done to a turn and the soup was just what soup should be, but couldn’t be depended on to remain so for any length of time.
“I don’t believe they’re coming after all,” said Marilla crossly.
Anne and Diana sought comfort in each other’s eyes.
At half past one Marilla again emerged from the parlor.
“Girls, we must have dinner. Everybody is hungry and it’s no use waiting any longer. Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that’s plain, and nothing is being improved by waiting.”
Anne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with all the zest gone out of the performance.
“I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mouthful,” said Diana dolefully.