Part 14 (1/2)

Without a sound this time or another glance the door to Roberts' room opened and closed and Armstrong was alone.

CHAPTER VI

A WARNING

With a dexterity born of experience Harry Randall looked up from his labor of separating the zone of carbon from the smaller segment of chop that had escaped the ravages of a superheated frying-pan and smiled across the table at his wife.

”On the contrary,” he said, refuting a pessimistic observation previously made by the person addressed, ”I think you're doing fine. I can see a distinct improvement every month. On the whole you're really becoming an admirable cook.”

”Undoubtedly!” The voice dripped with irony. ”That very chop, for instance--”

”Is merely a case in point,” amiably. ”Some people, unscientific people, might contend that it was overdone; but the initiated--that's us--know better. Meat, particularly from the genus hog, should always be well cooked. It obviates the possibility of trichina infection absolutely.”

”And those biscuits,” equivocally. ”I'll wager they'd sink like steel billets.”

Her husband inspected the articles designated with a judicial eye.

”Better so. We're thus saved the temptation of eating them. All statistics prove that hot biscuits and dyspepsia--”

”The salad, then,” wearily.

”Hygienic beyond a doubt. The superabundance of seasoning to which you doubtless refer may be unusual; nevertheless, it's a leaning in the right direction. Condiments of all kinds tend to stimulate the flow of the gastric juice; and that, you know, from your physiology, is what does the digestive business.”

Margery Randall laughed, against her will.

”And last of all the coffee,” she suggested.

”Frankly, as coffee, it is a little peculiar; but considered as hot water merely, it leaves nothing to be desired; and science teaches again that, like condiments, hot water--”

The two laughed together; temporarily the atmosphere cleared.

”Seriously, Harry,” asked the girl, ”do you really think I'll ever get so I can cook things that aren't an insult?” She swept the indigestible repast between them with a hopeless look. ”I'm trying my best, but at times like this I get discouraged.”

”Certainly you will,” with conviction. ”Now this bread, for instance,” he held up a slice to ill.u.s.trate, ”is as good as any one can make.”

”And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn't make. It's bakery bread, of course, silly.”

Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.

”These cookies, then.” He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure.

”They're good thoroughly.”

”Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day,” icily. ”She was here all the afternoon.”

An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.

”Margery, little girl,” his arms were around her. ”Don't take it so seriously. It's all a joke, honest.” With practised skill he kissed away the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. ”Of course you'll learn; every one has to have practice; and it's something you never did before, something entirely new.”

”That's just the point,” repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. ”It's something I've never had to do, and I'll never learn. I've been trying for practically a year now and things get worse and worse.”