It was a somewhat uncommunicative company that presently began eating the delicious pink canteloupe Martha set before them. The several impersonal comments which one or another of them made fell rather flat. The atmosphere was still charged with the constraint created by Blanche’s outburst. Her lowered brows and pouting lips plainly indicated the will to renew the conflict at the first possible opportunity. Jane, also, showed signs of undiminished wrath. Frances’ merry features wore the preternaturally solemn expression that she usually assumed when trying to hold back her laughter. She was already beginning to see the funny side of the affair. Betty, Anne and Marian looked frankly puzzled. As faithful adherents to the kitchen, they were scatheless. Emmy’s lovely face wore an expression of bored resignation to the inevitable. Ruth’s eyes were full of grave concern. She had feared dire results when Frances had raised her voice in mischievous paraphrase. Sarah was industriously wondering whether Blanche had heard what she had said.
“Here comes the sacred omelet,” Betty called out with forced gaiety, as Martha appeared, bearing a large platter on which reposed a thick golden omelet, crowned with an inch of frothy white, faintly browned on top. “This is Marian’s and my work of art. I beat the eggs, and she did the rest. We made two, knowing that one would never satisfy this hungry horde.”
“Just wait until you see the bacon,” boasted Anne, “I’m responsible for its perfection. I helped Martha with the toast, too.”
“Let us also be helpful and gobble up this glorious array of eats,” beamed Frances as Martha reappeared with the bacon, made more crisply tempting by a garnishing of parsley.
An audibly contemptuous sniff from Blanche caused a quick flush to mount to Frances’ cheeks. The unfortunate allusion to being helpful had aroused the injured one to fresh ire. Before she could fling a cutting remark at Frances, Ruth tactfully headed her off.
“You all deserve to be decorated as chefs,” she said brightly.
“You mean chefesses,” amended Anne waggishly.
“Something like that,” returned Ruth, flashing her a grateful smile.
“Wait until Sarah and I take our turn in the kitchen. Then you’ll have something really praiseworthy in the line of eats,” promised Frances. “By the way, when are we to do our cooking stunt. I prefer trying my hand at breakfast. I think breakfast should be a very simple meal, though. Just fruit and coffee, and perhaps a little toast. Bread would be better. I can slice bread beautifully. Sarah can tend to the fruit, and we’ll let Martha make the coffee. It’s all just as simple as A. B. C.”
“Entirely too simple,” jeered Jane. “It’s a plain case of you shirk and we starve. I move that Frances be made to get the dinner to-night, all by herself, from a bill of fare that we shall lay out for her. I believe in a punishment that fits the crime.”