“Yes, ma’am—for how many?”
“Only four. I’ve decided on some of the things I want. You know how to make cream of celery soup?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And boiled salmon with white sauce—you made the last very nicely; and cucumbers dressed with oil and vinegar—”
“You’ll have to order the oil, ma’am, as we’re just out of it.”
“Yes, I will; of course, we’ll need it for the mayonnaise also. I’ll have tomato salad, and I wish you would make some cheese wafers to go with it like those we had when you came last week. They were awfully good. And I want just a few rhubarb tarts and a frozen chocolate pudding for dessert—here’s the receipt for that—with whipped cream. And you might make a small cake of any kind that’s easy, Catherine.”
“What kind of meat is it to be, ma’am?”
“Spring lamb,” said Mrs. Callender with all the solemnity which such a resolution demanded. To buy real spring lamb in the suburbs in early April puts one on a level with a moneyed aristocracy. “Spring lamb with mint sauce and fresh peas and new potatoes, if I can get them,” she added reverently as a saving clause. She blessed her lucky stars that it was not a Friday, when, as every suburban dweller knows, there are only a few wilted strands of green to be seen in the vegetable bins, and nothing but cold round potatoes and onions and turnips are untemptingly offered for sale.
“And oh, Catherine,” concluded Mrs. Callender, “we’ll have coffee, of course; and I wish you’d make some of those lovely little rolls of yours—that is, if you have time,” she generously conceded.
“I’ll put the bit of ironing I have on hand away until to-morrow,” said Catherine with the resignation of necessity. “And you’ll make out a list, ma’am, if you please, of the things we do be needing. I’d have to get at the cake and the rolls this morning. There’s not a thing in the house to-day to start on. We’ve no eggs, nor cheese, nor cream, nor chocolate, and not enough butter, and no rock salt for the freezing, and there’s no fruit either, if you want that.”