Besides the dishes of almost untasted
delicacies, the flowers had been pushed into disarray, one small vase had
been upset and broken; owing to improper adjustment the candles had
dripped pink wax on the table-cloth; and the ice cream, which Pansy had
mistakenly served on open-work plates, had melted and run through.
Patty didn't say a word, indeed there was nothing to say. She went and
stood very close to her father, as if expecting him to put his arm around
her, which he promptly did.
"You see, Pitty-Pat," he said, "it wouldn't have made any difference at
all--not _any_ difference at all, _except_ that I have brought my friend
Mr. Hepworth, the artist, home to dinner; and you see, misled by the
experiences of last night, I promised him we would find a tidy little
dinner awaiting us."
"Oh, papa," cried Patty, "I _am_ sorry. If I had only known! I wouldn't
have failed you for worlds."
"I know it, my girl, and though this Lucullus feast does seem out of
proportion to a young misses' Tea Club, yet we won't say a word about
that now. We'll just get snow shovels and set to work and clear this
table and let Mancy get a simple little dinner as quickly as she can."
"But, papa," and here Patty met what was, perhaps, so far, the hardest
experience of her life, "I forgot to order anything for dinner at all!"
"Why, Patty Fairfield! consider yourself discharged, and I shall suit
myself at once with another housekeeperess!"
"You are the dearest, best, sweetest father!" she exclaimed.
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