"Oh," as she
was told, "I used those plates, dear. I was making a lot of pies and our
pieplates gave out."
"Making a lot of pies?" Petticoat repeated, wonderingly, while Marigold
Leathersharn murmured, "How quaint!" in a supercilious way.
"Yes," went on Warble, unperturbed. "Want to see 'em?"
They did, and all went to look at the eight dozen custard pies in the
pantry windows.
"Whoopee!" shouted Petticoat, "here's where I take the helm! Cut out the
rest of the formal supper, and let's have a pie eating contest."
It warmed the cockles of Warble's heart to see how they all fell in with
this suggestion. Could it be? Was she really having some effect on their
terrible aestheticism at last?
Absorbed in her thoughts, she ate her pies and when the contest was over
the prize was awarded to Warble Petticoat. "Oh," she cried, astounded. "I
wasn't in the game at all! The hostess never should be. I was just eating
what I wanted."
"You're a dear," Marigold Leathersham said to her. "I'm going to love you.
How your husband must adore you, you pretty thing."
"Yes, he does." Warble stated. "At least, he says so."
"He's a truthful man," Marigold declared, "you'd know that just to look at
him. There's something in his face just now--"
"It's pie," said Warble, "he's very fond of it.
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