A pleasant stir of preparation pervaded the kitchen. Mrs. Binney,
enormous, good-natured, capable, was opening crabs at one end of the
table, her sleeves rolled up, and her gingham dress, in the last
stage of age and thinness, protected by a new stiff white apron;
Celia, Mrs. Carew's cook, was sitting opposite her, dismembering two
cold roasted fowls; Lizzie Binney, as trim and pretty as her mother
was shapeless and plain, was filling silver bonbon-dishes with
salted nuts.

"How is everything going, Celia?" said Mrs. Carew, sampling a nut.

"Fine," said Celia placidly. "He didn't bring but two bunches of
sullery, so I don't know will I have enough for the salad. They sent
the cherries. And Mrs. Binney wants you should taste the punch."

"It's sweet now," said Mrs. Binney, as Mrs. Carew picked up the big
mixing-spoon, "but there's the ice to go in."

"Delicious! not one bit too sweet," Mrs. Carew pronounced. "You know
that's to be passed around in the little glasses, Lizzie, while
we're playing; and a cherry and a piece of pineapple in every glass.
Did Annie find the doilies for the big trays? Yes. I got the bowl
down; Annie's going to wash it. Oh, the cakes came, didn't they?
That's good. And the cream for coffee; that ought to go right on
ice. I'll telephone for more celery."

"There's some of these napkins so mussed, laying in the drawer,"
said Lizzie, "I thought I'd put a couple of irons on and press them
out."