Frances lingered in the dining-room after dinner was done. She pretended
to be rearranging the flowers on the table; in reality she was thinking
what to say to the little, spare, bent colored woman who was busily
clearing away the dishes.
"Susan," she began, "I think I'll make a cake this afternoon."
"Dyar's half a one hyar now," grumbled Susan with a flash out of her
dark eyes that were like live coals in the wrinkled face.
"And--ah--I thought I'd make some floating island."
"La! chile, what yah gwine pester roun' de kitchen for ter-day?"
Susan had taught Frances the mysteries of cooking and was inordinately
proud of her pupil's skill, but she wanted it practised when it suited
her; and that afternoon had a vision of rest and mending.
"And," went on Frances, to finish now that the subject was broached, "I
got those chickens right out the coop. Roxie says they are nice and fat.
That Dominico now, how would it do to have it smothered?"