But now, in mid-afternoon, nothing seemed done.  There were flowers still to arrange; there was the mild punch that Santa Paloma affected at card parties to be finished; there was candy to be put about on the tables, in little silver dishes; and new packs of cards, and pencils and score-cards to be scattered about.  And in the kitchen—­But Mrs. Carew’s heart failed at the thought.  True, her own two maids were being helped out to-day by Mrs. Binney from the village, a tower of strength in an emergency, and by Lizzie Binney, a worthy daughter of her mother; but there had been so many stupid delays.  And plates, and glasses, and punch-cups, and silver, and napkins for twenty-eight meant such a lot of counting and sorting and polishing!  And somehow George and the children must have dinner, and the Binneys and Celia and Annie must eat, too.

“Well,” thought Mrs. Carew, with a desperate glance at the kitchen clock, “it will all be over pretty soon, thank goodness!”

A pleasant stir of preparation pervaded the kitchen.  Mrs. Binney, enormous, good-natured, capable, was opening crabs at one end of the table, her sleeves rolled up, and her gingham dress, in the last stage of age and thinness, protected by a new stiff white apron; Celia, Mrs. Carew’s cook, was sitting opposite her, dismembering two cold roasted fowls; Lizzie Binney, as trim and pretty as her mother was shapeless and plain, was filling silver bonbon-dishes with salted nuts.

“How is everything going, Celia?” said Mrs. Carew, sampling a nut.

“Fine,” said Celia placidly.  “He didn’t bring but two bunches of sullery, so I don’t know will I have enough for the salad.  They sent the cherries.  And Mrs. Binney wants you should taste the punch.”

“It’s sweet now,” said Mrs. Binney, as Mrs. Carew picked up the big mixing-spoon, “but there’s the ice to go in.”

“Delicious! not one bit too sweet,” Mrs. Carew pronounced.  “You know that’s to be passed around in the little glasses, Lizzie, while we’re playing; and a cherry and a piece of pineapple in every glass.  Did Annie find the doilies for the big trays?  Yes.  I got the bowl down; Annie’s going to wash it.  Oh, the cakes came, didn’t they?  That’s good.  And the cream for coffee; that ought to go right on ice.  I’ll telephone for more celery.”

“There’s some of these napkins so mussed, laying in the drawer,” said Lizzie, “I thought I’d put a couple of irons on and press them out.”

“If you have time, I wish you would,” Mrs. Carew said, touching the frosted top of an angel-cake with a tentative finger.  “I may have to play to-night, Celia,” she went on, to her own cook, “but you girls can manage everything, can’t you?  Dinner really doesn’t matter—­ scrambled eggs and baked potatoes, something like that, and you’ll have to serve it on the side porch.”

“Oh, yes’m, we’ll manage!” Celia assured her confidently.  “We’ll clear up here pretty soon, and then there’s nothing but the sandwiches to do.”