“Well if you won't I will!” burst forth the father at last, and ran upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the moment, with a teaspoon.
“Aren't you going to feed him?” asked Mr. Porne, with forced patience.
“It isn't time yet,” she announced wearily. “He has to have his bath first.”
“Well,” with a patience evidently forced farther, “isn't it time to feed me?”
“I'm very sorry,” she said. “The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have to eat cornflakes. And—the cream is sour—the ice didn't come—or at least, perhaps I was out when it came—and then I forgot it..... I had to go to the employment agency in the morning!.... I'm sorry I'm so—so incompetent.”
“So am I,” he commented drily. “Are there any crackers for instance? And how about coffee?”
She brought the coffee, such as it was, and a can of condensed milk. Also crackers, and fruit. She took the baby and sat silent.
“Shall I come home to lunch?” he asked.
“Perhaps you'd better not,” she replied coldly.
“Is there to be any dinner?”