"If you men don't stop talking and come right out, these flapjacks
will be spoiled!" she cried. The men arose and obeyed her call.
"There are compensations for everything," said Meeks, laughing, as he
settled down heavily into his chair. He was a large man. "Flapjacks
are compensations. Let us eat our compensations and be thankful.
That's my way of saying grace. You ought always to say grace, Henry,
when you have such a good cook as your wife is to get meals for you.
If you had to shift for yourself, the way I do, you'd feel that it
was a simple act of decency."

"I don't see much to say grace for," said Henry, with a disagreeable
sneer.

"Oh, Henry!" said Sylvia.

"For compensations in the form of flapjacks, with plenty of butter
and sugar and nutmeg," said Meeks. "These are fine, Mrs. Whitman."

"A good thick beefsteak at twenty-eight cents a pound, regulated by
the beef trust, would be more to my liking after a hard day's work,"
said Henry.

Sylvia exclaimed again, but she was not in reality disturbed. She was
quite well aware that her husband was enjoying himself after his own
peculiar fashion, and that, if he spoke the truth, the flapjacks were
more to his New England taste for supper than thick beefsteak.

"Well, wait until after supper, and maybe you will change your mind
about having something to say grace for," Meeks said, mysteriously.