Part 119 (2/2)

Mrs. p.o.r.ne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat.

”She does not give a fish course, does she?” Mrs. Ree observed.

”Not at the table d'hote price,” Mrs. p.o.r.ne answered. ”We never pretended to have a fish course ourselves--do you?” Mrs. Ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. The meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy.

”Don't you miss the carving, Mr. p.o.r.ne?” asked the visitor. ”I do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving.”

”I do miss it, Mrs. Ree. I miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. I never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when I come to the table, I like to eat--not saw wood.” And Mr. p.o.r.ne ate with every appearance of satisfaction.

”We never get roast beef like this I'm sure,” Mrs. Ree admitted, ”we can't get it small enough for our family.”

”And a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. Yes this is far better than we used to have,” agreed her hostess.

Mrs. Ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. The soup was hot. The salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. There was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. The coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue.

”I don't understand about the heat and cold,” she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. Everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. And the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o'clock.

”She doesn't furnish table linen?”

”No, there are j.a.panese napkins at the top here. We like our own napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway.”

”And how about silver?”

”We put ours away. This plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. We could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. Some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it's a good deal of risk, I think, though they are extremely careful.”

Mrs. Ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. As far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. But her sense of Domestic Aesthetics was jarred.

”It certainly tastes good,” she said. ”Delicious, in fact. I am extremely obliged to you, Mrs. p.o.r.ne, I'd no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. And only five dollars a week, you say?”

”For each person, yes.”

”I don't see how she does it. All those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!”

That was the universal comment in Orchardina circles as the months pa.s.sed and Union House continued in existence--”I don't see how she does it!”

THE WAITING-ROOM

The Waiting-room. With row on row Of silent strangers sitting idly there, In a large place expressionless and bare, Waiting for trains to take them other-where; And worst for children, who don't even know Where they're to go.

The Waiting-room. Dull pallid Patients here, Stale magazines, cheap books, a dreary place; Each Silent Stranger, with averted face, Waiting for Some One Else to help his case; and worst for children, wondering in fear Who will appear.

WHILE THE KING SLEPT

He was a young king, but an old subject, for he had been born and raised a subject, and became a king quite late in life, and unexpectedly.

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