“No, I’m not crazy! I mean just what I say. My husband has brought home company, and we had only a canned dinner, and they can’t eat it because they’ve been in Africa—and, oh, I can’t explain. And it’s so important to treat them well, and—oh, you dear thing!”
For Mrs. Waring had handed the soup to Nelly and was already giving orders to her own maid.
“Don’t say another word,” she commanded rapidly, with a woman’s perception grasping the situation. “Send us over just what you have in exchange. We have only a plain home dinner—roast beef, vegetables, macaroni, cottage pudding—you can put the things in your oven again. Henry, carry over this roast, will you? Don’t make any noise, any of you.”
“I’ll take the potatoes,” said Mrs. Callender fervently, but as she climbed her own piazza steps once more and saw the ghostly procession that came and went stealthily bearing dishes, her knees suddenly bent under her, and she leaned against one of the piazza posts, too weak from laughter to move.
“Take care, you’ll drop that dish,” said Mr. Waring interposing a dexterous arm, while he endeavored to balance the roast on the railing. “Mrs. Callender, don’t sit down on the piazza; get up. You’ll have me laughing, too, if you don’t stop, and I’ve got to take this in and go back for plates.”
“We have plates,” said Mrs. Callender, strangling. “Oh, Mr. Waring, we have plates—we have something. Oh, Mr. Waring, go and leave me, go and leave me! I’ll never be able to stand up.”
“Hello, what’s the matter?” Mr. Callender, with an excited whisper, came peering out into the semi-darkness. “That back door keeps letting in an infernal draught. What on earth are you and Waring doing out here, Cynthia? And you without a thing over your shoulders! I call that mean, having a good time out here by yourselves, and leaving me inside to do all the entertaining. Don’t you know that we’re waiting for dinner, and it’s after half-past seven o’clock?”
His ill-used expression was the last straw. Mr. Waring rocked and reeled with his platter, while the roast performed an obligato movement.
“Oh!” moaned Mrs. Callender as her husband finally assisted her to an erect position, and offendedly took up the dish of potatoes. “Don’t say a word, don’t ask me a thing; you’ll never in this world know all I’ve gone through in the last hour—you couldn’t take it in. But I’ve got the dinner—your Englishmen are provided for—your future is assured, and all that we have to do now is to go in and eat—and eat—and eat.”