“Friday. Breakfast—Brown hash, poached eggs, corn bread, baked potatoes. Dinner—Bisque of clams, beef au gratin, chicken rissoles, cauliflower, potatoes, tomato salad, custard pie.
“Saturday. Breakfast—Scalloped clams, cauliflower, omelet, pop-overs, stewed potatoes. Dinner—Clear soup, veal cutlets, mashed potatoes, cabbage, macaroni, apple pudding.
“And to-morrow’s breakfast and dinner, though not eaten, is paid for, so I add that.
“Sunday. Breakfast—Broiled bacon, poached eggs, muffins. Dinner—Clear soup, chicken pie, mashed potatoes, creamed onions, tomato salad, peach compote, and custard.”
Molly concluded her list with rather a triumphant air, as one who knows she has achieved what she set out to do.
“Yes, Molly, we have had all those good breakfasts and dinners, and I’m afraid to think of the work you have had to cook all that. Let me look at your poor little hands.”
She held them towards him. They were white and soft as ever.
“Nevertheless,” he said, pressing them between his own, “I feel such a selfish brute to let you do it.”
“Nonsense! I like it. Why, didn’t I always go to Mrs. Welles’ house after each cooking-lesson, and repeat the whole lesson, when I hadn’t the satisfaction of seeing you share the good things I made, because we were boarding? And didn’t she and I repeat every failure until we got it right? Those were the days when I had backaches and headaches, because I was so anxious to succeed and failed so often; but now it is all at my fingers’ ends, and no more trouble than the simplest cooking—far less, indeed; it takes a little more time and makes more washing-up for Marta; and if we had a large family and I had other duties, I could not give so much time; nor would it be right to overwork one girl to cater to our tastes; but in a tiny house like this, with two or even four people, there’s no question of overwork for either mistress or maid.”
“But even your time, dear, oughtn’t to be sacrificed to give me good dinners.”