Part 119 (1/2)

Is it hot and tempting?”

Mrs. Ree was fascinated by the new heresy. As a staunch adherent of the old Home and Culture Club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it.

Mrs. p.o.r.ne smiled patiently. ”You remember Diantha Bell's cooking I am sure, Mrs. Ree,” she said. ”And Julianna used to cook for dinner parties--when one could get her. My Swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. Do take off your hat and have dinner with us,--I'll show you,” urged Mrs. p.o.r.ne.

”I--O I mustn't,” fluttered the little woman. ”They'll expect me at home--and--surely your--supply--doesn't allow for guests?”

”We'll arrange all that by 'phone,” her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the Ree household, then called up Union House and ordered one extra dinner.

”Is it--I'm dreadfully rude I know, but I'm _so_ interested! Is it--expensive?”

Mrs. p.o.r.ne smiled. ”Haven't you seen the little circular? Here's one, 'Extra meals to regular patrons 25 cents.' And no more trouble to order than to tell a maid.”

Mrs. Ree had a lively sense of paltering with Satan as she sat down to the p.o.r.ne's dinner table. She had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler's tray at Mrs. p.o.r.ne's left, whereon stood a neat square s.h.i.+ning object with silvery panels and bamboo tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.

”It's not at all bad looking, is it?” she ventured.

”Not bad enough to spoil one's appet.i.te,” Mr. p.o.r.ne cheerily agreed.

”Open, Sesame! Now you know the worst.”

Mrs. p.o.r.ne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers.

”Do you know what is in it?” asked the guest.

”No, thank goodness, I don't,” replied her hostess. ”If there's anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what's coming!

That's what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. Now I can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if I was a guest.”

”It is--a tax--sometimes,” Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, ”But one is glad to do it--to make home attractive.”

Mr. p.o.r.ne's eyes sought his wife's, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates.

”Not silver, surely!” said Mrs. Ree, lifting hers, ”Oh, aluminum.”

”Aluminum, silver plated,” said Mr. p.o.r.ne. ”They've learned how to do it at last. It's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn't pretty, gla.s.s and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there's a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit.”

It did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service--and so surprisingly light.

”You see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate,” said Mr. p.o.r.ne. ”Now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup.” They did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. Mrs. Ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream.

”Why--why--it's like Paris,” she said in an awed tone.

”Isn't it?” Mr. p.o.r.ne agreed, ”and not twice alike in a month, I think.”

”Why, there aren't thirty kinds of soup, are there?” she urged.

”I never thought there were when we kept servants,” said he. ”Three was about their limit, and greasy, at that.”