The stew being finished, Emmy collected the plates, and retired once
again to the scullery. Now did Jenny show afresh that curiosity whose
first flush had been so ill-satisfied by the meat course. When, however,
Emmy reappeared with that most domestic of sweets, a bread pudding,
Jenny's face fell once more; for of all dishes she most abominated bread
pudding. Under her breath she adversely commented.

"Oh lor!" she whispered. "Stew and b.p. What a life!"

Emmy, not hearing, but second sighted on such matters, shot a malevolent
glance from her place. In an awful voice, intended to be a trifle arch,
she addressed her father.

"Bready butter pudding, Pa?" she inquired. The old man whinnied with
delight, and Emmy was appeased. She had one satisfied client, at any
rate. She cut into the pudding with a knife, producing wedges with a
dexterous hand.

"Hey ho!" observed Jenny to herself, tastelessly beginning the work of
laborious demolition.

"Jenny thinks it's common. She ought to have the job of getting the
meals!" cried Emmy, bitterly, obliquely attacking her sister by talking
at her. "Something to talk about then!" she sneered with chagrin, up in
arms at a criticism.

"Well, the truth is," drawled Jenny.... "If you want it ... I don't like
bread pudding." Somehow she had never said that before, in all the
years; but it seemed to her that bread pudding was like ashes in the
mouth. It was like duty, or funerals, or ... stew.