“It is—a tax—sometimes,” Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, “But one is glad to do it—to make home attractive.”
Mr. Porne'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. Porne. “They've learned how to do it at last. It's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn't pretty, glass 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. Porne. “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. Porne 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.”