“We will make a chance,” said Mrs. Grindstone, after clearing her throat, rather unpleasantly, Cornelia thought. “What Annetta does not like to think is that other people can do things without her telling them how. It would be a good plan to keep quiet and go ahead, and do some big thing exactly as she means to do it—on the same scale, in every way.”
“Exactly!” said Cornelia, with animation, as she wrestled with the crackly brown paper enshrouding the last book of her pile. “One such lesson would be enough for Annetta.”
“Just so,” said Mrs. Grindstone, fairly slapping her last label into place.
“Look here, girls,” interposed old Mrs. Bennett, who always read her morning’s paper from the rising to the going down of its varied information; “fine times have come to Sutphen. Here’s a city caterer set up in that built-over block on Main Street, where Blink’s shoe-store used to be before the fire. There’s nothing he doesn’t offer to furnish to customers—bread, rolls, patty shells, ice-creams (French and American), birthday cakes, weddin’ cakes, salads, cotillon favors, Jack Horner pies—”
“AN OPPORTUNITY TO DECK OUT HER BOARD WITH AN EFFECT.”
“You don’t say so?” interpolated Mrs. Grindstone with housekeeperish relish.
“Yes; and he undertakes to serve ‘dinners, luncheons, teas, and receptions with glass, silverware, and elegant services of china, competent waiters and chefs, awnings, camp-chairs, crash, tables, decorations—all in first-class style!’”
“For all the world as they do it in the city,” exclaimed Miss Cornelia, excitedly. “Mother, it does look as if Providence had rolled a stone out of our pathway. Everybody knows we could have had just as fine parties as Annetta Stratton if we’d only not had to ask her how to set about givin’ ’em. And so could you, Mrs. Grindstone. Your house is two feet wider than Annetta’s, four rooms on a floor, and splendid chandeliers in every room. Just the place for an evening reception, like the one I went to at Professor Slocum’s in New York.”