His sisters decided to give a party for Victor. Maggie said it was only polite when he’d gone to so many, and paid no attention to his protests. He didn’t want a party. The girls didn’t realize how elaborate parties were nowadays, and he couldn’t imagine his friends from town in the shabby dining-room, with Papa’s old desk and Mamma’s oil paintings, and the stains on the ceiling where the pipes had burst. But what could he feel but embarrassed gratitude, looking at his sisters’ glowing faces as they planned his party for him?
The supper table was really lovely—May arranged it, humming to herself, happy and light, seeing herself as Wadsworth Robinson saw her. The centerpiece was a mass of pansies tumbling from a torn straw garden hat, glistening here and there with touches of gold paint. And over the pansies flights of yellow and violet butterflies trembled on finest wires from the new lampshade of violet crêpe paper.
Maggie was on a rampage in the kitchen, cutting up chickens for the salad, slicing cold ham that crumbled with tenderness, buttering bread for the cucumber sandwiches. She was going to have nice things for Victor’s party, if they had to live on mush and molasses for the rest of the year. She murmured to herself a rosary of delicious dishes.
“Salmon croquettes—all ready to heat—beaten biscuit—they’re done—angel’s food—ice-cream—Jake’s going to freeze it—coffee—I can tend to that when I slip out to heat the croquettes—Ma-ay! Front door bell!”
“Li‑ly! Door bell!”
And there was Daisy Blow, with an armful of lace tablecloth, and her coachman with baskets of candlesticks and pink china and goodness knew what.
“My dear, I simply ran over with some little things for tonight—oh, Pompon, petsums, did his Auntie Lily step on him? He says he fordives her, he knows she didn’t mean to hurt poor Pompon—oh, shut up, Pomp! Is Snap around anywheres? He and Pompon—Look! I brought this lace tablecloth and the pink satin one for underneath to show through—that’s the dernier cri, you know. And the table mirror and the china swan to go on it are in one of the baskets—bring them in, Pete—see, isn’t that chick? I always put that in the center, then the flowers round it, and these silver candlesticks with the pink candles and sweet little pink silk shades—I said to Cousin Victor last night, ‘I’m just going to bundle up some things and bring them over—’ ”
“May’s finished the table, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s see! How do—oh, gracious! Too bad I was so slow, but I’m such a sleepyhead in the morning, and my old Sambo spoils me—oh, too bad you have a violet lampshade, I brought over everything pink. Haven’t you some pink silk or something you could just run up into a little shade?”
The butterflies that had been quivering in a delicate living cloud turned back into paper and wire; the new lampshade looked just what it was, a makeshift.
“Aren’t you girls the smart ones? Who else in the world would have fixed up an old hat for a centerpiece?” Who else would want to, her expression said. And though they didn’t want Daisy Blow’s lace tablecloth and bisque swan, somehow there they were on the table—“just to try—”
“Isn’t it a dream? Sure you don’t mind? Look at these little pink silk candleshades—look! I paid ever so much for them in New York. All puffly ruffly, just like dreat bid drowed up lampshades, wasn’t they, Pompon? Pompon says, ‘yes, jus’ zackly’ And I brought over a box of pink and silver dragées I happened to have—they’re not much to eat, in fact they’re left over from a couple of dinner parties, but they match the candles and candlesticks. Those butterflies—hmm. They’re the cutest things I ever did see, but they don’t just exactly go with the pink, do they? I have an idea—”
“Don’t let it get away,” said Lily, feeling daring. That was what Victor always said. It was exciting, to see all this pink and silver glowing and gleaming around their old dining-room—horrid, if May minded, but exciting.
“I’ll dash home and get some accordion-pleated chiffon I’ve just had done for a tea-gown—there’s yards and yards of it, we can catch it round the lamp—we’ll all be raving beauties in its roseate glow. And Mose has a lot of pink begonias in the conservatory, they’d match better than the pansies—do you want any more silver, while I’m over? Some bonbon dishes or anything? I said to Cousin Victor, I’d adore to bring anything, I know you live simply and why should you have a lot of things? Come on, Pompon, come on, Mudder’s boy—”
Maggie came in from the kitchen, sniffing. “Daisy Blow’s been here,” she said, and then: “Oh, May! Your table!”
“Daisy’s been rearranging it,” said May listlessly.
“Why on earth did you let her? Such impertinence!”
“It’s the dernier cri,” Lily explained.
“Well, it looks like fury! We don’t want Mrs. Sam Blow’s things!”
“Oh, Maggie, who cares? Victor will think it’s perfect if wonderful marvellous Cousin Daisy did it.”
“Hmp! May Campion, where are all your butterflies?”
“I threw them away.” May opened her clenched hand, and looked at one little butterfly lying crushed on her palm. “Daisy didn’t think they went with the pink candleshades.”
“Oh, she didn’t, didn’t she? You’ve been working on those butterflies for nights and nights. Who’s giving this party, anyway?” asked Maggie furiously.
She asked it again through the evening, as Daisy dominated everything, a jewelled dagger thrust through her yellow hair, her cheeks plushy pink, as vivid as the great pink puffs of her sleeves. “That certainly is paint,” Maggie said to herself. Victor thought Daisy was all that was bright and beautiful, as she made him balance a caramel on his nose, pretending he was Pompon,
