Nobody was absent to the club that afternoon, but Mis’ Elkhorn’s sitting-room was big enough so’s we could get in. None of us could bear a parlor club meeting. Our ideas always set in our heads to a parlor-meeting, called to order by rapping on something. But here at Mis’ Elkhorn’s we were out in the sitting-room, with the red table-spread on and the plants growing and the spice-cake smelling through the kitchen door. And you’d think things would of gone as smooth as glass. Instead of which, I donno what on earth ailed us. But when we got to sitting down, sewing, it was like some kind of little fine dislocation had took place in the air. Mis’ Puppy had brought a centre-piece to work on, big as a rug, all drawn work and hemstitching and embroidery. And somehow Mis’ Pettibone, that only embroiders useful, couldn’t stand it. “My, Mis’ Puppy,” she says, “I shouldn’t think you could get a bit of house-work done, making that so lavish.” Mis’ Puppy shut her lips so tight it jerked her head. “I don’t scrub out continual, same as some,” she says. “If you mean me,” says Mis’ Pettibone, tart, “I guess I can do house-work as easy as the most.” “I heard there’s those that can--where it don’t show,” says Mis’ Puppy, some goaded beyond what she meant. “Mean to say?” snaps Mis’ Pettibone. “Oh, nothin’,” says Mis’ Puppy, “only to them that their backs the coat fits.” “I never was called shiftless since I was born a wife and a house-keeper,” says Mis’ Pettibone, bordering on tearful. “Oh, _was_ you born a house-keeper, Mis’ Pettibone?” says Mis’ Puppy, sweet. Then Mis’ Pettibone went in and set on the foot of the bed where we’d laid our things, and cried; and one or two of us went in and sort o’ poored her. And, land, when we’d got her to come out, the first thing we heard was Mis’ Lockmeyer pitching into Mis’ Wilme. “Anybody that can say I don’t make ice-cream as cheap as the best ain’t any of an ice-cream judge,” she was saying hot, “be they you or be they better.” “I wasn’t saying a word about _cheap_,” says Mis’ Wilme, “I was talking about _good_.” “Well,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, “I thought I made it good.” “Not with the little dab of cream you was just mentioning, you can’t,” says Mis’ Wilme, firm. “It ain’t reasonable _nor_ chemical.” “Don’t you think your long words is goin’ to impress me,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, more and more het up. “Well, ladies,” says Mis’ Elkhorn, humorous, “nobody can make it any colder’n anybody else, anyhow.” Somebody pitched in then, hasty and peaceful, and went to talking about Cemetery; and it looked like we was launched on a real quiet subject. “I guess we’ve all got more friends up there then we’ve got in town,” says I. “When we go up there to walk on Sundays, I declare if I had to bow to all the graves I recognize I’d be kep’ busy.”