"Isn't it splendid to be able to loosen up and undress for dinner? It is especially fine when the dinner is so delicious," exclaimed Elise. "I am going to learn how to cook, if Molly will help me. Mamma never would let me go near the kitchen, and do you know I have never even seen any uncooked food except in shop windows and don't know a raw beefsteak from an old boot leg?"
"Papa says a French chef can cook up a boot leg with a sauce surprise that you couldn't for the life of you tell from the finest kind of steak. Now this roast chicken is the best I have ever tasted, with a gravy that has the squawk of the wild duck and the coo of a pigeon and——" but here Judy stopped to help herself plentifully to the wonderful gravy and Molly finished out her speech for her:
"And the gobble of a turkey; and what attribute of the goose?"
The table in the studio, with its bowl of chrysanthemums, strips of Japanese toweling in lieu of a cloth, and odd blue china was very attractive. The china was odd in two senses of the word, as not a single saucer matched its cup and no two plates were of the same size. But what mattered that? Was not the coffee in the cups of the hottest and clearest and strongest? Was not the chicken and gravy, on the miscellaneous plates, food for the gods? Was not the rice, à la New Orleans, a marvel of culinary skill? Where but in Paris could one find such crusty bread and delicious butter? The salade Romaine was crisp and fresh and Judy had made the salad dressing. It was her one accomplishment in the way of preparing food. She did it in great style and was always much hurt if any one else was given her job.
"Judy reminds me of Garrick and ought to make the dressing, anyhow," said Molly. "You remember what Sydney Smith said of him: 'Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see, oil, vinegar, pepper, and mustard agree.'"
"Do you know the Spanish recipe for salad dressing?" asked Elise. "'A spendthrift for oil; a niggard for vinegar; a sane man for salt and a maniac for beating it.'"
Judy was proving her suitability by beating so vigorously and clicking so loudly with the fork, that a gentle knock on the door had to be sharply repeated before they were sure of it. There was a general scramble from the kimonoed crowd, who were not expecting a visitor at this hour. But Mrs. Brown, who wore a black China silk wrapper and was always presentable, went to the door where a small boy in a long white linen apron and a baker's cap stood with a huge flat basket on his head.
"Un gâteau pour Madame Brune."
"But we have not ordered a cake."
But the small boy was sure it was a cake for Mrs. Brown, and when the great flat basket was lifted from his head, there, in verity, was reposing a beautiful mocha cake with Mrs. Brown's name and address distinctly written on a card, but nothing else.