“Yes, and I have called them myself too,” says Max, a little crossly, for he loves to have the curry served hot, “but they don’t seem to be ready yet. How splendid it looks,” he continues, and, with a furtive glance round to make sure that the children are out of the way, he helps himself from one of the dishes to a leg of roast fowl. He has abundant time to pick the bone leisurely before the guests appear, with the immediate request from Emily that the door may be closed.
“Oh, cousin,” Max exclaims, “it will be so frightfully stuffy here!”
“Yes, but there’s such a draught just now; and that’s so dangerous for Piet’s complaint, you see. So—if you don’t mind?”
They seat themselves, and the “boys” begin to wait. Jo is glad to see that the cook has exerted herself to the very utmost, and throws a contented little nod across to her husband, as much as to say, “Now, haven’t you a clever little wife?” to which he replies convincingly by helping himself very liberally from the various dishes.
All at once Jo discovers that Cousin Martendijk is eating away at dry rice!
“Won’t you have some curry?” she asks; “or perhaps you would rather——”
“No, thank you, cousin, I often eat my rice dry.”
“Do have a little piece of fricassee, then!” she exclaims in dismay, as he lets even that indispensable dish pass.
“No, it’s so dangerous to eat fricassee. You never know what it’s made of. And when one is a martyr to indigestion——”
“Oh, come,” Max exclaims impatiently, “you don’t need to be afraid of anything of that kind here. Jo always makes the fricassee herself, and most delicious it is, I assure you.”