' There was a mischievous twinkle in Mrs. Atherton's eyes
which disconcerted her so much that she spilled her coffee in her lap,
and felt, as she afterward told a friend to whom she was describing the
dinner, as if she could have been knocked down with a feather.
'Such folderol!' she said. 'Changing your plates all the time--eating
peas in the winter greener than grass, with nothing under the sun with
them, and drinking coffee out of a cup about as big as a thimble. Give
me the good old-fashioned way, I say, with peas and potatoes, and meat,
and things, and cups that will hold half a pint and have some thickness
that you can feel in your mouth.'
And now she was to exchange the good, old-fashioned way for what she
termed 'folderol,' and for a time she did not like it. But her husband
was so delighted and eager that he succeeded in impressing her with some
of his enthusiasm, and after he had returned to his grocery, and her
dishes were washed, she removed her large kitchen apron, and pulling
down the sleeves of her dress, went and stood before the mirror, where
she examined herself critically and not without some degree of
complacency.
Her hair was black and glossy, or would be if she had time to care for
it as it ought to be cared for; her eyes were bright, and perhaps in
time she might learn to use them as Mrs.
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