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Page 49
"All right," she assented. "But if it is to be a surprise I must have a
clear coast till everything is ready."
Arrayed in a long apron of Joyce's, Mary stood a moment considering the
resources of refrigerator and pantry. There were oysters on the ice. An
oyster stew would make a fine beginning this cold day. There was a
chicken simmering in the fireless cooker. Joyce had put it on while they
were getting breakfast, intending to make some sort of boneless
concoction of it for dinner. But it would be tender enough by the time
she was ready for it, to make into a chicken-pie. In the days when Phil
had been a daily guest at the Wigwam, chicken-pie was his favourite
dish. That should be the surprise for him.
It was queer how all his little preferences and prejudices came back to
her as she set about getting lunch. He preferred his lemon cut in
triangles instead of slices, and he liked the cauliflower in mixed
pickles, but not the tiny white onions, and he wanted his fried eggs
hard and his boiled eggs soft. But then, after all, it wasn't so queer
that she should remember these things, she thought, for the likes and
dislikes of a frequent guest would naturally make an impression on an
observant child who took part in all the household work. It was just the
same with other people. She'd never forget if she lived to be a hundred
how Holland put salt in everything, and Norman wouldn't touch
apple-sauce if it were hot, but would empty the dish if it were cold.
"I can't paint like Joyce, and I can't write like Betty," she thought as
she sifted flour vigorously, "but thank heaven, I can cook, and give
pleasure that way, and I like to do it."
An hour would have been far too short a time for inexperienced hands to
do what hers accomplished, and even Joyce, who knew how quickly she
could bring things to pass, was surprised when she saw the table to
which they were summoned. The oyster stew was the first success, and
good enough to be the surprise they all agreed. Then the chicken-pie
was brought in, and Phil, cutting into the light, delicately browned
crust, declared it a picture in the first place, and a piece of
perfection in the second place, tasting the rich, creamy gravy, and
thirdly "a joy for ever," to remember that once in life he had partaken
of a dish fit for the gods.
"Honestly, Mary, it's the best thing I ever ate," he protested, "and I'm
your debtor for life for giving me such a pleasure."
Mary laughed at his elaborate compliments and shrugged her shoulders at
his ridiculous exaggerations, but in her heart she knew that everything
was good, and that he was enjoying each mouthful. A simple salad came
next, with a French dressing. She had longed to try her hand at
mayonnaise, but there wasn't time, and lastly the doughnuts, crisp and
feather-light and sugary, with clear, fragrant coffee, whose very aroma
was exhilarating.
"Here's a toast to the cook," said Phil, lifting the fragile little cup,
and smiling at her through the steam that crowned it:
"_Vive Marie!_ Had Eve served her Adam ambrosia half as good as this,
raw apples would have been no temptation, and they would have stayed on
in Eden for ever!"
It certainly was pleasant to have scored such a success, and to have it
appreciated by her little world.
They might have lingered around the table indefinitely had not a knock
on the door announced that Mrs. Maguire had come. It was her afternoon
to clean.
"So don't cast any anxious eyes at the dishes, Mary," announced Phil.
"We planned other fish for you to fry, this afternoon. I proposed to the
girls to take all three of you out for an automobile spin for awhile,
winding up at a matinee, but Joyce and Betty refuse to be torn from
their work. They've seen all the sights of New York and they've seen
Peter Pan, and they won't 'play in my yard any more.' The only thing
they consented to do was to offer your services to help me dispose of
this last day of my vacation. Will you go?"
"Will I _go_!" echoed Mary, sinking back into the chair from which she
had just risen. "Well, the only thing I'm afraid of is that my enjoyer
will be totally worn out. It has stood the wear and tear of so many good
times I don't see how it can possibly stand any more. Why, I've been
fairly _wild_ to see Peter Pan, and I've felt so green for the last few
years because I've never set foot in an automobile that you couldn't
have chosen anything that would please me more."
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