The truth was, Polly felt no uncertainty as to the
beginning and the end of her feast. The soup had never failed her,
the pudding she knew to be good; so she could bear with the tough
and stringy roast and the hard, lumpy potatoes with a fair grace.
There was a hush of interested expectancy, as Polly dipped the
ladle into the creamy, foamy soup. Then, when she poured it out
into the plate, the conversation hastily started up again, but not
so soon as to cover a sudden giggle from Alan, which he would have
given worlds to recall when he saw Polly's tragic expression, as
she surveyed the thin, watery compound and the white lumps
floating in it.
The mothers present accepted their shares in silence and were
heroically preparing to eat them, when Miss Bean was heard to
speak.
"No, thank you," she said, as she waved her plate away; "I don't
care for any; it don't look very good. I reckon it wheyed a little
mite, didn't it?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Adams inquiringly.
But the doctor mercifully led her off into a tide of reminiscence,
and his daughter was spared for the time being. The dinner went on
from bad to worse, but the guests were most polite, and tried
their best to keep up a brisk conversation, while they nibbled at
the underdone potatoes and picked at the overdone asparagus.
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