Porne?" 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. Porne 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 Japanese napkins at the top here. We like our own
napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway.
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