"The stuff's _got_ to be finished up!" flared Emmy defiantly, with a
sense of being adjudged inferior because she had dutifully habituated
herself to the appreciation of bread pudding. "You might think of that!
What else am I to do?"

"That's just it, old girl. Just why I don't like it. I just _hate_ to
feel I'm finishing it up. Same with stew. I know it's been something
else first. It's not _fresh_. Same old thing, week in, week out.
Finishing up the scraps!"

"Proud stomach!" A quick flush came into Emmy's cheeks; and tears
started to her eyes.

"Perhaps it is. Oh, but Em! Don't you feel like that
yourself.... Sometimes? O-o-h!..." She drawled the word wearily. "Oh
for a bit more money! Then we could give stew to the cat's-meat man
and bread to old Thompson's chickens. And then we could have nice things
to eat. Nice birds and pastry ... and trifle, and ices, and wine.... Not
all this muck!"

"Muck!" cried Emmy, her lips seeming to thicken. "When I'm so
hot.... And sick of it all! _You_ go out; you do just exactly what you
like.... And then you come home and...." She began to gulp. "What about
me?"

"Well, it's just as bad for both of us!" Jenny did not think so really;
but she said it. She thought Emmy had the bread and butter pudding
nature, and that she did not greatly care what she ate as long as it was
not too fattening. Jenny thought of Emmy as born for housework and