Nobody was absent to the club that afternoon, but Mis’ Elkhorn’s sitting-room was big enough so’s we could get in. None of us could bear a parlor club meeting. Our ideas always set in our heads to a parlor-meeting, called to order by rapping on something. But here at Mis’ Elkhorn’s we were out in the sitting-room, with the red table-spread on and the plants growing and the spice-cake smelling through the kitchen door. And you’d think things would of gone as smooth as glass.
Instead of which, I donno what on earth ailed us. But when we got to sitting down, sewing, it was like some kind of little fine dislocation had took place in the air.
Mis’ Puppy had brought a centre-piece to work on, big as a rug, all drawn work and hemstitching and embroidery. And somehow Mis’ Pettibone, that only embroiders useful, couldn’t stand it.
“My, Mis’ Puppy,” she says, “I shouldn’t think you could get a bit of house-work done, making that so lavish.”
Mis’ Puppy shut her lips so tight it jerked her head.
“I don’t scrub out continual, same as some,” she says.
“If you mean me,” says Mis’ Pettibone, tart, “I guess I can do house-work as easy as the most.”
“I heard there’s those that can—where it don’t show,” says Mis’ Puppy, some goaded beyond what she meant.
“Mean to say?” snaps Mis’ Pettibone.
“Oh, nothin’,” says Mis’ Puppy, “only to them that their backs the coat fits.”