The eyes of Irish Nelly sparkled. “That’s just it, ma’am. Mr. Waring’s home late to-night, and they’re only just now sitting down to the soup. I seen it going in through the window. If you—” she stopped tentatively.
“Well, well—say it!”
“Sure, they’d loan you the whole dinner, ma’am, if you asked it.”
The light of kindred inspiration kindled in Mrs. Callender. The neighborhood was practically a joint-stock food company, where maids might be seen flitting through the back yard at any hour of the day or evening, with the spoils of the borrower. But an entire dinner! The magnificence of the scheme took Mrs. Callender’s breath away.
“You’d give the lend of it yourself, ma’am,” said Nelly impartially.
Mrs. Callender gasped—and assented.
“Come!” she said, and followed by the maid, dashed out of the kitchen door, down the back piazza steps, and then up again on the piazza of the adjoining house.
The people seated at the table in the dining-room looked up at the long window, amazed to see Mrs. Callender gesticulating insanely at them from without.
“Don’t help any more of that soup,” she called insistently. “Don’t help any more of it—wait till I get in.” The window opened from the inside, and she hurled herself into the room. “No, no!” she answered the look on their horror-struck faces, “it’s not poisoned. I don’t mean that—it’s all right; but I want it myself, I want your dinner. Oh, will you let me take it home with me?”
“My dear Mrs. Callender,” expostulated Mr. Waring in a quieting voice, rising cautiously.