"You certainly have learned to be some cook, Anne."
"I like to try new dishes." Her things on, Anne moved from the room and when she had passed Hilda, said, "but it's the so-called fussy things that are easiest. Whipped cream and eggs make a great show, but any fool can beat them up. Lots of things are harder. I don't believe I could make a decent pot-roast, if I tried. I don't even know what part of the animal to buy."
"There are different parts. Cross-rib's fine, but chuck's cheapest, and I like it just as well."
"And it takes hours and hours, doesn't it?" Anne was still moving toward the stair-head, her back to Hilda.
"No, it doesn't. Lots of people think it does and they make those dry, leathery roasts. A piece big enough for us never took more than a couple of hours, going slow, with plenty of suet."
"Chuck, going slow, two hours, plenty of suet," Anne entrenched it in her memory, and then Hilda was saying:
"You never used to like it, but I'm sure I don't know why. I don't think there's any gravy like the gravy of a good pot-roast. And there's always plenty of it."
As usual, she walked down the stairs with Anne and kissed her again at the front door.
Roger was not in when Anne reached home. She lit the gas-range and put the pot-roast on before taking off her things. When it was simmering at the right rate, she shut the kitchen door to keep the odor from the living-room, changed into a kimono, and lay down on the living-room couch.
It was dusk, with the first faint stars winking uncertainly in the deepening twilight, when Roger came running up the stairs. He was out of breath, cool-skinned and glowing. He came straight to the couch and kissed her.