But it's simply impossible for me to gush. I cannot express emotion of
any kind with the facility of most women. I worshipped my mother, but
I rarely kissed her or expressed my love for her in words. My love for
Dicky terrifies me sometimes, it is so strong, but I cannot go up
to him and offer him an unsolicited kiss or caress. Respond to his
caresses, yes! but offer them of my own volition, never! There is
something inside me that makes it an absolute impossibility.

"What's the menu, Madge? The beef again?"

Dicky's tone was mildly quizzical, his smile mischievous, but I
flushed hotly. He had touched a sore spot. The butcher had brought
me a huge slab of meat for my first dinner when I had timidly ordered
"rib roast," and with the aid of my mother's cook book and my own
smattering of cooking, my sole housewifely accomplishment, I had been
trying to disguise it for subsequent meals.

"This is positively its last appearance on any stage," I assured him,
trying to be gay. "Besides, it's a casserole, with rice, and I defy
you to detect whether the chief ingredient be fish, flesh or fowl."

"Casserole is usually my pet aversion," Dicky said solemnly. Look not
on the casserole when it is table d'hote, is one of the pet little
proverbs in my immediate set. Too much like Spanish steak and the
other good chances for ptomaines. But if you made it I'll tackle
it--if you have to call the ambulance in the next half-hour."

"Dicky, you surely do not think I would use meat that was doubtful,
do you?" I asked, horror-stricken. "Don't eat it. Wait and I'll fix up
some eggs for you."