“Yes, indeed,” answered Polly; “why, where are they?” peering up and down the festal, not “board,” but tablecloth.
“Don't tell me they are gone,” cried the girl, leaning over to look for herself.
“I'm afraid they are,” said Polly; “oh, I'm so sorry, Agatha!”
“You should have spoken before, my child,” said a parlor boarder, who had eaten only three of Mrs. Fisher's tarts, and adjusting her eyeglasses.
“Why, I've only just gotten through eating bread and butter,” said Agatha. “I can't eat cake until that's done.”
“A foolish waste of time,” observed the parlor boarder; “bread and butter is for every day; cake and custards and flummery for high holidays,” she added with quite an air.
“Hush up, do,” cried Alexia, who had small respect for the parlor boarders and their graces, “and eat what you like, Penelope. I'm going to ransack this table for a tart for you, Agatha.”
She sent keen, bird-like glances all up and down the length of the tablecloth. “Yes, no—yes, it is.” She pounced upon a lemon tart hiding under a spray of sweet fern, and handed it in triumph across. “There you are, Agatha! now don't say I never did anything for you.”
“Oh, how sweet!” cried Agatha, burying her teeth in the flaky tart.
“I should think it was sour,” observed Amy Garrett; “lemons usually are.”