"You 'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can
call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do,"
said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in
a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates,
and a flat shell or two.
"Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and
skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a
queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party.
"Here 's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things,
and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly,
flying in again, and depositing her share on the table.
"Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the
china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe
your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the
example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of
merriment.
Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one
more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom
about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and
such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once.
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