“Oh, for a while, perhaps,” acknowledged Ellen, carelessly. “Of course we’re having great larks playing at it, this week, and the house is sweet, but—after all, I’d rather have a little bit more tone, wouldn’t you, Knollys?”
“Gladys-Marie wouldn’t,” said Knollys, gazing out toward the strawberry-patch. “She says she’s so keen on the main show that she has no time to think about style and things.”
“The main show?” Ellen looked up, puzzled.
“Getting married, you know, and—a House. A House in the country.”
“Oh!” For some minutes Ellen stirred in silence. Then suddenly she set the bowl down on the table and untied her apron. “I think”—she took Knollys firmly by the hand—“we will go up and put on our own clothes. Gladys-Marie can finish the icing.”
“Certainly she can,” agreed Knollys, bewildered, “but why? Weren’t we doing it perfectly well?”
“Too well,” returned his wife, succinctly, pushing him before her out of the kitchen.
But as she saw him safely started up the stairs, she slipped back guiltily for just one look at her cake.
Mrs. Verplanck stood regarding a ragged wreath of daisies. Across the centre ran “10 Yeres” in straggling brown-eyed-susan capitals. It was Sunday morning.
“10 Yeres”! Something brighter than the dew upon the daisies brimmed Mrs. Verplanck’s eyes and fell upon the awkward little wreath.