“Yes, Mrs. Parsons brought over a can she had left when they moved away last week. There’s pretty near a pint in it, just had a few spoonsful taken out, but I can’t make real mayonnaise. It won’t get stiff for me. It separates. And it takes so long, doesn’t it?” “Well, I can. No, it only takes a few minutes. I know a lovely recipe. Where’s the oil? Get me some salt and pepper and mustard and eggs. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy while you cut up the celery and chicken. Then we’ll fix it and put it on the ice all ready.” The two were soon busily at work, and the mayonnaise whipped itself into a thick, velvety, yellow mass in no time under Joyce’s skilful hand. The worried hostess was delighted, and presently a tempting platter of scarlet tomatoes was set on the ice, filled to overflowing with the most toothsome chicken salad that ever went to a feast. “You’re going to have creamed potatoes and new peas out of your own garden. Isn’t that wonderful? What’s for dessert? Anything I can do about that?” asked Joyce as she turned away from the refrigerator. “Why, I’ve ordered ice cream, and I made a cake. That’s all right, I just looked at it and the icing is hardening nicely. You see I just got the telegram at three o’clock that they were coming. It went first to the other Bryants up on the hill and they were away. I ought to have got it yesterday. I wonder why that ice cream doesn’t come. They promised to have it here at four. I always order it earlier than I need it for safety. It’s twenty after four now. I believe I’ll call up to make sure.” She went to the phone and in two or three minutes appeared in the kitchen door where Joyce was just putting on the peas, with her face the picture of dismay: “What shall I do? They can’t send it. They say the orders have all gone out this afternoon, and mine wasn’t among them. There was some mistake.” “Isn’t there some other place? I’ll run out and get some for you.” “No,” said Mrs. Bryant in despair, “the other two places don’t have any fit to eat. I wouldn’t offer it to a cat! I haven’t even a pie on hand. Isn’t this simply awful!” The poor woman sat down and dropped her tired face in her hands looking as if she were going to weep. “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Bryant. There’s always something one can do. Let me think. Have you any junket tablets?” “Why, yes,” said the despairing housekeeper, “But what is junket? An invalid’s food!” “Wait till you see mine. It’s caramel junket, and we’ll serve it with whipped cream. You haven’t some preserved cherries or a few strawberries or something to put on the top of each dish, have you? It’s the prettiest thing you ever saw. Where is the sugar, quick? We must hurry. Have you some individual dishes that will be pretty to hold it?” Mrs. Bryant produced some long stemmed sherbet glasses and a bottle of preserved cherries, saying dubiously: