Already the great range, that stretched the entire length of the tiny tiled kitchen, was filled with copper vessels, and appetizing odors were permeating the living room and the little shop beyond.
“Let me help,” said Judy bravely. “Must I mind the shop or do you need me here? I can’t cook, but I can wash spinach and peel potatoes.”
“Marie can look after the shop this morning, my dear child, so you go rest yourself,” said the good wife.
“I don’t want to rest! I want to work!”
“Let her work, Mother! Let her work! It is best so,” and Judy’s old partner got the blue bowl, sacred to mayonnaise, and Judy sat on the bench in the court and stirred and stirred as she dropped the oil into the beaten egg. Her arm ached as the great smooth yellow mass grew thicker and thicker, but the more her arm ached, the less her heart ached. When the bowl was quite full, she started in on a great basket of potatoes that must be peeled, some for Saratoga chips and some for potato salad. Onions must be peeled, too, and then the spinach cleaned and chopped in a colander until it was a purée.
The Tricots worked with a precision and ease that delighted Judy. She never tired of watching the grenadier turn out the wonderful little tarts. On that morning a double quantity was to be made as Marie was to carry a basket of them to “the regiment”; that, of course, meant Jean Tricot’s regiment. They had not yet been ordered to the front, but were ready to go at any moment.
The old woman put batch after batch in the great oven. They came out all done to a turn and all exactly alike, as though made by machinery. Then they were put in the show cases in the shop; and more were rolled out, filled and baked.
“Sometime may I try to do some?”
The old woman smiled indulgently at Judy’s pale face.
“You may try right now.”