well; George growled as he cut it. Emeline jumped up for forgotten table
furnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth. After the one course
the head of the house would look about hungrily.

"No cheese in the house, I suppose?"

"No--I don't believe there is."

"What's the chances on a salad?"

"Oh, no, George--that takes lettuce, you know. My goodness!" And Emeline
would put her elbows on the table and yawn, the rouge showing on her
high cheek bones, her eyes glittering, her dark hair still pressed down
where her hat had lain. "My goodness!" she would exclaim impatiently,
"haven't you had enough, George? You had steak, and potatoes, and
corn--why don't you eat your corn?"

"What's the chances on a cup of tea?" George might ask, seizing a half
slice of bread, and doubling an ounce of butter into it, with his great
thumb on the blade of his knife.

"You can have all the tea you want, but you'll have to use condensed
milk!"

At this George would say "Damn!" and take himself and his evening paper
to the armchair in the front window. When Emeline would go in, after a
cursory disposition of the dishes, she would find Julia curled in his
arms, and George sourly staring over the little silky head.

"It's up to you, and it's your job, and it makes me damn sick to come