It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would
wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another
dress. She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse
on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the
round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair,
silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown,
specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set
the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably.
Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life
in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne
household.
"Dear," said Mr. Porne, "might I petition to have the steak less cooked?
I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?"
"I'm sorry," she answered, "I always forget about the steak from one
time to the next."
"Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear."
"I thought you liked it better than anything," she with marked
gentleness. "I'll get you other things--oftener."
"It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you
should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about
it."
"And I never dreamed you cared so much about it," she replied, still
with repression. "I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should
be disappointed in me.
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