“I think I’ll get my sewing, too,” said Margaret. “I feel like a drone in this hive of industry.”
“One, two, three, chain,” said Aunt Peace. “Iris, do you think the cakes are as good as they were last time?”
“I think they’re even better.”
“Did you take out the oldest port?”
“Yes, the very oldest.”
“I trust he was not hurt,” Aunt Peace went on, “because last week I asked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those things more keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance of guests.”
“Of course, he would be disappointed,” said Iris, with a little smile, “but he would understand—I’m sure he would.”
When Margaret came back she had a white, fluffy garment over her arm. “Who would have thought,” she cried, gaily, “that I should ever have the time to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of East Lancaster has wrought a wondrous change in me.”
“Iris,” said Miss Field, “let me see your stitches.”