The Forerunner Part 119

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 shining 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."

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.