The Dominant Dollar Part 14

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."

"Not worse," hopefully; "you merely think so. You're just a bit discouraged and tired to-night--that's all."

"I know it and, besides, I can't help it." She was winking hard again against two fresh tears. "I spoiled two cakes this afternoon. Elice tried to show me how to make them; and I burned my finger"--she held up a swaddled member for inspection--"horribly. I just can't do this housework, Harry, just simply can't."

"Yes, you can." Once more the two teary recruits vanished by the former method. "You can do anything."

The girl shook her head with a determination premeditated.

"No; I repeat that I've tried, and it's been a miserable failure.

I--think we'll have to have the maid back again, for good."

"The maid!" Randall laughed, but not so spontaneously as was normal. "We don't want a maid bothering around, Margery. We want to be alone." He had a brilliant thought, speedily reduced to action. "How could I treat injured fingers like this properly if there was a maid about?"

"There wouldn't be any burned fingers then," refuted the girl.

Intentionally avoiding the other's look, she arose from the neglected dinner-table decisively and, the man following slowly, led the way to the living-room. "Joking aside," she continued as she dropped into a convenient seat, "I mean it, seriously. I've felt this way for a long time, and to-day has been the climax. I simply won't spend my life cooking and dusting and--and was.h.i.+ng dishes. Life's too short."

From out the depths of the big davenport Harry Randall inspected steadily the rebellious little woman opposite. He did not answer at once, it was not his way; but he was thinking seriously. To say that the present moment was a surprise would be false. For long, straws had indicated the trend of the wind, and he was not blind. There was an excuse for the att.i.tude, too. He was just enough to realize that. As she had said, she was born differently, bred differently, educated to a life of ease. And he, Harry Randall, had known it from the first, knew it when he married her. Just now, to be sure, he was financially flat, several months ahead of his meagre salary; but that did not alter the original premise, the original obligation. He remembered this now as he looked at her, remembered and decided--the only way it seemed to him possible an honorable man could decide.

"Very well, Margery," he said gravely, "you may have the maid back, of course, if you wish it. I had hoped we might get along for a time, while we were paying for the things in the house, anyway; but"--he looked away--"I guess we'll manage it somehow."

"Somehow!" Margery glanced at him with only partial comprehension. "Is it really as bad as that, as hopeless?"

Randall smiled the slow smile that made his smooth face seem fairly boyish.

"I don't know exactly what you mean by bad, or hopeless; but it's a fact that so far we've been spending a good deal more than my income."

"I'm sorry, dear, really." It was the contrition of one absolutely unaccustomed to consideration of ways and means, uncomprehending.

"Particularly so just now with winter coming on and--and girls, you know, have to get such a lot of things for winter."

This time Randall did not smile; neither did he show irritation.

"What, for instance?" he inquired directly.

"Oh, a tailored suit for one thing, and a winter hat, and high shoes, and--and a lot of things."

"Do you really need them, Margery?" It was prosaic pathos, but pathos nevertheless. "There's coal to be bought, you know, and my life insurance comes due next month. I don't want to seem to be stingy, you know that; but--" he halted miserably.

"Need them!" It was mild vexation. "Of course I need them, silly. A girl can't go around when the thermometer's below zero with net s.h.i.+rtwaists and open-work stockings."

"Of course," quickly. With an effort the smile returned. "Order what you need. I'll take care of that too"--he was going to repeat "somehow," then caught himself--"as soon as I can," he subst.i.tuted.

The girl looked at him smilingly.

"Poor old Harry, henpecked Harry," she bantered gayly. Crossing over, her arms went around his neck. "Have an awful lot of troubles, don't you, professor man!"