"Isn't this perf'ly fine?" cried Viola Vincent. They were all seated by this time, some on the floor, others wherever they could find a few inches of spare room, and were dispensing the viands with reckless liberality. "I say! I wish we had these every week, instead of only once a year. Why, it's just as easy! Oh, what an elegant cream pie! Give me some!"
"No!" said Grace Wolfe, with emphasis.
"Why not? What's the matter, Goat?"
"I will not have pies called elegant while I am leader of this Gang," said Grace. "Take my life, if you will, but spare my feelings!"
"All right," said Viola, cheerily. "Your own way, Goat. I'd just as lief call it dandy, and it is dandy, you can't deny that."
"Perhaps the Goat is thinking of succeeding her Puggy in the rhetoric chair!" said Blanche Haight, with a sneer.
"Perhaps I am thinking of stopping your—" began Grace; but she checked herself, and turned away abruptly.
"Look at Colney!" said Vivia Varnham. "Isn't she too perfectly killing? She doesn't know we are here, I believe. Look at her hair, girls! It gets more ratty, not to say woozzy, every day. I wonder when she brushed it last."
"Possibly when you brushed your manners," said the Scapegoat. "Colney is our hostess, I beg to remind you. And nobody giving her a bite of supper!"
She rose from the floor, piled a plate with good things, and went over to the corner where Colney Hatch was bending over her mouse, conscious of nothing else.