Which was the truth. Hildegarde's coming had given a fillip, as it were, to Delia's existence. She enjoyed vicariously the things that her young mistress did, and the things she wore. The new gowns which she laid out shone and shimmered for her as well as for Hildegarde. And Hildegarde's experiences, retailed each morning, took on the aspect of a Thousand-and-One-Nights enchantment to the enraptured maid.
This morning they had talked about the Christmas party. Round Hill was to be very gay, with a half-dozen house guests and two servants added to help Delia and Sampson. One of these servants was Mary Jackson—Delia's own cousin.
"I'm havin' her do the cookin'," Delia had stated. "Ma'y kin roas' a tukkey twel hit tase like pa'tridge. I told Mr. Louis effen he'd have Ma'y Jackson an' ol' Edward, we could lay the res' of our troubles at the feet of Jesus."
"Delia!" To Hildegarde, Delia's frankness of expression seemed nothing short of blasphemous.
Delia gave her an oblique glance. "Well, Mr. Louis knows Ma'y, and he knows Edward. Ma'y can cook, and Edward can wait, and that leaves me and Sampson free to circulate."
"Circulating" was, in Delia's vocabulary, the cream of all that was desirable. With the things of the kitchen and dining-room off her mind, she could flit from the room of one feminine guest to another, giving help where it was needed, and getting in return the gossip.
While Hildegarde had her bath, Delia went down for the breakfast tray. The letters lay in a neat pile
