"Never you mind, Mancy," she said, "you just go ahead and do as I tell
you. Get the jelly and cream ready, and I'll do the rest."
"But ain't yo' gwine to have no solidstantial kind o' food?"
"Oh, yes, of course. I want a _croustade_ of chicken and
club-sandwiches."
"Humph," said Mancy, her patience giving out at this, "ef yo' does, yo'll
hab to talk English."
Patty laughed. "You must get used to these names, Mancy, because these
are the kind of things I like. Well, you just boil a couple of chickens,
and cut them up small, and see that there are two loaves of bread ready,
those long round, crimply ones, you know, and then I'll put it all
together and all you'll have to do is to brown it. And I'll show you how
to make the club-sandwiches after lunch. You might as well learn once for
all, you know. There's bacon in the house, isn't there?"
"No, dey ain't; is yo' fren's gwine stay ter breakfus'?"
"Oh, no, I'd want the bacon for the club-sandwiches. Don't worry, Mancy,
they'll all come out right."
"Dey mought and den again dey moughtn't," grumbled the old woman, but
undaunted Patty went on measuring and weighing with a surety of success
that is found only in the young and inexperienced.
At one o'clock Marian walked out into the kitchen.
"Good gracious, Patty Fairfield," she exclaimed, "what are you doing? And
what are all those things? Do you expect the Democratic Convention to be
entertained here, or are you going to give the Sunday-school a picnic?
And are we never to have lunch? I'm simply starving!"
Patty turned a flushed face to her cousin, and looked dazed and
bewildered.
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