"Try and be patriotic, dear," she said soothingly. "Of course, I know
you wouldn't allow a Frenchman to say all that, and that you are just
talking cussedly with your own wife."

A ring at the bell caused a diversion. We hailed it. We were in the
humor to hail anything. The domestic hearth _was_ most trying. We were
bored to death. I sprang up and ran to the door, a little pastime to
which I was growing accustomed. Three tittering young women, each
wearing a hat in which roses, violets, poppies, cornflowers,
forget-me-nots, feathers and ribbons ran riot, confronted me.

"Miss Gerda Lyberg?" said the foremost, who wore a bright red gown, and
from whose hat six spiteful poppies lurched forward and almost hit me in
the face.

For a moment, dazed from the cook-book, I was nonplussed. All I could
say was "No," meaning that I wasn't Miss Gerda Lyberg. I felt so sure
that I wasn't that I was about to close the door.

"She lives here, I believe," asserted the damsel, again shooting forth
the poppies.

I came to myself with an effort. "She is the--the cook," I muttered
weakly.

"We are her friends," quoth the damsel, an indignant inflection in her
voice. "Kindly let us in. We've come to the Thursday sociable."

The three bedizened ladies entered without further parley and went