"That's the i-dee," said Calliope, heartily; "if everything's foolish, it's just as foolish doin' nothin' as doin' somethin'. Will you bring over a kettleful o' boiled potatoes to my house Thanksgivin' noon? An' mash 'em an' whip 'em in my kitchen? I'll hev the milk to put in. You—you don't cook as much as some, do you, Mame?"
Did Calliope ask her that purposely? I am almost sure that she did. Mis' Holcomb's neck stiffened a little.
"I guess I can cook a thing or two beside mash' potatoes," she said, and thought for a minute. "How'd you like a pan o' 'scalloped oysters an' some baked macaroni with plenty o' cheese?" she demanded.
"Sounds like it'd go down awful easy," admitted Calliope, smiling. "It's just what we need to carry the dinner off full sail," she added earnestly.
"Well, I ain't nothin' else to do an' I'll make 'em," Mis' Holcomb promised. "Only it beats me who you can find to do for. If you don't get anybody, let me know before I order the oysters."
Calliope stood up, her little wrinkled face aglow; and I wondered at her confidence.
"You just go ahead an' order your oysters," she said. "That dinner's goin' to come off Thanksgivin' noon at twelve o'clock. An' you be there to help feed the hungry, Mame."
When we were on the street again, Calliope looked at me with her way of shy eagerness.
"Could you hev the dinner up to your house," she asked me, "if I do every bit o' the work?"
"Why, Calliope," I said, amazed at her persistence, "have it there, of course. But you haven't any guests yet."