“Considering it as a kitchen, not as a locker, does it strike you as being adequate?”
T. A. Buck, standing in the center of the room, touched all four walls with his stick.
“I've heard,” he ventured, “that they're—ah—using 'em small this year.”
Emma McChesney's eyes took on a certain wistful expression. “Maybe. But whenever I've dreamed of a home, which was whenever I got lonesome on the road, which was every evening for ten years, I'd start to plan a kitchen. A kitchen where you could put up preserves, and a keg of dill pickles, and get a full-sized dinner without getting things more than just comfortably cluttered.”
T. A. Buck reflected. He flapped his arms as one who feels pressed for room. “With two people occupying the room, as at present, the presence of one dill pickle would sort of crowd things, not to speak of a keg of 'em, and the full-sized dinner, and the—er—preserves. Still—”
“As for a turkey,” wailed Emma McChesney, “one would have to go out on the fire-escape to baste it.”
The swinging door opened to admit the agent. “Would you excuse me? A party down-stairs—lease—be back in no time. Just look about—any questions—glad to answer later—”
“Quite all right,” Mrs. McChesney assured him. Her expression was one of relief as the hall door closed behind him. “Good! There's a spot in the mirror over the mantel. I've been dying to find out if it was a flaw in the glass or only a smudge.”
She made for the living-room. T. A. Buck followed thoughtfully. Thoughtfully and interestedly he watched her as she stood on tiptoe, breathed stormily upon the mirror's surface, and rubbed the moist place with her handkerchief. She stood back a pace, eyes narrowed critically.
“It's gone, isn't it?” she asked.