“Goot boy, Seedney! What to do you ever ask. You also so ask, Max?”
“Surely.”
Sydney noticed that Max’s face had no cloud on it. He did not show resentment of her trust in Sydney, nor of his superior knowledge of commonplace duties.
“There iss not so much to do in the house—enough to eat—anyways Seedney, you are a goot cook. Ant the nursery—you know already what goes on there. Look a leetle out for Blitzen, ant—that iss all I guess.”
“The marmalade?” Sydney inquired.
“Oh, that spoils anyhow I guess. No matter. Mebbe the trials will be over pretty quick; then I’ll make it.”
She was as brisk and prompt about civic duty as about her own; and when the boys insisted she should do no housework that morning, she was ready before starting time, looking quite imposing in her “going out” clothes.
While she sat waiting, Sydney ran out on some errand to the nursery, and Max, still puzzling over the invitation he had received, seized this opportunity to talk it over with her.
She inquired the object of the club. The elaborate constitution couched in flowing, dignified English was quite impressive. Max began to read it to her, but she stopped him.
“I cannot understand that language. What kind of boys belong?”