It was far from good; the deaf Hannah had scorched the soup, to which Edith called attention, making no effort to emulate the manners of her father, who heroically took the last drop in his plate. Maurice, anxious that Eleanor's housekeeping should shine, thought the best way to affirm it was to say that this soup was vile, "but generally our soup is fine!"
"Maurice thinks Edith is a wonderful cook," Eleanor said; her voice trembled.
Something went wrong at dessert, and Edith said, generously, that she "didn't mind a bit!" It was at that point that the race of God kept her father from murdering her, for, in a real desire to be polite and cover up the defective dessert, she became very talkative, and said, wasn't it funny? When she was little, she thought a harpy played on a harp; "and I thought you had a harp, because father—"
"I'd like some more ice cream!" Mr. Houghton interrupted, passionately.
"But there's salt in it!" said Edith, surprised. To which her father replied, breathlessly, that he believed he'd not go out on the river; he had a headache. ("Mary has got to do something about this child!")
"I'll go," Edith announced, cheerfully.
"I think I'll stay at home," Eleanor said; "my head is rather inclined to ache, too, Mr. Houghton; so we'll none of us go."
"Me and Maurice will," Edith protested, dismayed.
Maurice gave an anxious look at Eleanor: "It might do your head good, Nelly?"
"Oh, let's go by ourselves," Edith burst out; "I mean," she corrected herself, "people like father and Eleanor never enjoy the things we do. They like to talk."