“Cold baked potatoes?” said Helen. “There isn’t anything, except creaming them.”
“They’re all right that way,” said Louise, “but that isn’t what I’m going to do.”
“Well, I’ll take the cake,” said Helen. “I saw some sour milk in the ice-box, and spice-cake is the cheapest cake I know.”
“I’ll take the meat,” said Winona. “There must be something I can do with a beautiful piece of steak like that, even if it is cooked.”
“That leaves the salad for you, Adelaide,” said Mrs. Bryan cheerfully. “Louise, you’d better see about some fruit for supper, for your potatoes won’t take you long.”
Then Mrs. Bryan introduced them to the ways of the gas-range, and went back to lie in wait for her Blue Birds.
Helen collected spice and molasses and flour and shortening around her corner of the table, and went systematically to work on her spice-cake.
“It looks like gingerbread,” said Winona, getting the bread-crumb jar.
“It is, really, only it hasn’t much ginger in,” explained Helen. “Lots of people don’t like ginger. What are you going to do with your steak, Winnie?”
“Frame it!” advised Louise frivolously. “They say they have a four-pound steak under glass at the Metropolitan Museum, as a relic of the days when each family had at least one in a lifetime.”
“If you want to frame your share of it you may,” said Winona. “I’m going to eat mine.”
“They’re supposed to be eaten,” put in Helen mildly. “But really, Winnie, I think you have rather a hard job. There’s not nearly enough steak there for eight people. It was only intended for five in the first place.”
“That’s the game, isn’t it?” said Winona placidly. “Besides, I’m going to send Florence home to supper. It’s all right for her to attach herself to the party for the afternoon, but I draw the line at her inviting herself to a meal—don’t you think so, Louise?”
“I’m wid yez,” called Louise back from the gas-range, where she was doing something with sugar and water. “Bessie goes back, too.”
Winona got the chopping-machine, divided a big stalk of celery with Adelaide, made another excursion to the shelf over the ice-box for some peppers and onions, and began to grind her beefsteak.
“No, scalloped meat,” answered Winona. “The croquettes won’t go as far, and there’ll be the cream gravy extra, and we’ll need milk for the cocoa. Besides, the deep fat to fry them would be another horrible extravagance.”
