CHAPTER VII

She had reached the peak of excitement in a confident decision that her
party should be a success.

In the morning she interviewed the cook.

"You can spread yourself on the feast, Francois," she said, "have any old
menu you like so long as it's edible and enough of it. But especially I
want you to make for me one hundred custard pies."

The French chef looked puzzled. He was an expensive chef and part of his
duty was to look puzzled at any plain-named dish.

"But, Madame, I do not know ze custard pie. Is it a creme pate?"

"No, it isn't a krame puttay, nor creamed potatoes, but cus-tard pie--see?
_Pie_! Oh, don't stand there looking like a whitewashed clown! Get out of
my way, I'll make them myself!"

Flinging on one of the chef's jackets and aprons, Warble flew at the job
and with a battalion of helpers breaking eggs and skimming cream, she
herself tossed the flour and shortening together for the crust.

Efficiency scored and in an incredibly short space of time eight dozen
custard pies were cooling their heels in the pantry windows.

"Not to be served with the supper," Warble warned the butler, "when I want
them brought in I'll tell you."