"
"Well, there's Lotta Munn, of course. I suppose you haven't a fortune of
your own?"
"Oh, yes; I'm enormously rich in my own right."
"You are! Why, where did your husband get you?"
"He got me out of a mail catalogue." Warble made a face at her. "Must you
go, Mrs. Boddy?" she rose. "I won't ask you to come again, as I know how
you love your own home and fireside. Goodby."
Though Mrs. Holm Boddy put up a strong resistance, Warble pushed her out
of the front door and slammed it after her.
"That woman has left finger marks on my nice clean soul," she said, as she
went down to see the cook about the sausage.
CHAPTER VII
She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her
party should be a success.
In the morning she interviewed the cook.
"You can spread yourself on the feast, Francois," she said, "have any old
menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But especially I
want you to make for me one hundred custard pies."
The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his
duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish.
"But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a creme pate?"
"No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard pie--see?
_Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! Get out of
my way, I'll make them myself!"
Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job
and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she
herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust.
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