Chapter 7

           MaryCarsonwasgoingtobeseventy-twoyearsold,andshewasplanningthebiggestpartytobeheldonDroghedainfiftyyears.HerbirthdayfellatthestartofNovember,whenitwashotbuttillbearable—atleastforGillynatives.

           "Markthat,Mrs.Smith!"Minniewhispered."Doyemarkthat!Novemberthet’urrdherselfwasborn!"

           "Whatareyouonaboutnow,Min?"thehousekeeperasked.Minnie’sCelticmysteriousnessgotonherowngoodsteadyEnglishnerves.

           "Why,andtobesureitmeansherselfisaScorpiowoman,doesitnot?AScorpiowoman,now!"

           "Ihaven’tgottheslightestideawhatyou’retalkingabout,Min!"

           "Thewurrstsignawomancanfindherselfborninto,Mrs.Smithdarlin’.Och,they’rechildrenoftheDevil,sotheyare!"saidCat,round-eyed,blessingherself.

           "Honestly,Minnie,youandCatarethedizzylimit,"saidMrs.Smith,notawhitimpressed.

           Butexcitementwasrunninghigh,andwouldrunhigher.Theoldspiderinherwingchairattheexactcenterofherwebissuedanever-endingstreamoforders;thiswastobedone,thatwastobedone,suchandsuchwastobetakenoutofstorage,orputintostorage.ThetwoIrishmaidsranpolishingsilverandwashingthebestHavilandchina,turningthechapelbackintoareceptionroomandreadyingitsadjacentdiningrooms.