“Never mind. Perhaps these people won’t know the difference, just think they’re a brand-new kind.”
“You don’t open them till the very last thing, and then you serve them with ice on their heads to keep them cool, and lemon slices. I know that much,” said Louise, following Winona downstairs again.
“Then we won’t open them till the very last thing, and forget all about them till Tom comes downstairs again,” said Winona with decision. “Soup—let’s see. Oh, I know! Mother had me make some bouillon this morning, for old Mrs. Johnson down in Hallam’s Alley. We’ll serve that in the bouillon cups, and make Mrs. Johnson some more to-morrow, or take her chewing-tobacco instead. She’d much rather have it, she says.”
“All right. And Tom brought some fish in,” supplied Louise.
They went out to inspect the fish, and found that there would be plenty, if it was carefully distributed.
“Doesn’t everything dovetail beautifully?” said Winona thankfully. “What’s next?”
“Salad,” said Louise, consulting the scrapbook. “Haven’t you any lettuce in the garden?”
“Of course we have!” said Winona. “All there is to do is to pick it.”
“Well—the roast?”
But here there was a deadlock.