“I do. I love it dearly—in others. But I can't—I don't want to make it myself.”
“But what do you want to do?”
Marie laughed suddenly.
“Do you know, my dear, I have half a mind to tell you what I do like to do—just to make you stare.”
“Well?” Billy's eyes were wide with interest.
“I like best of anything to—darn stockings and make puddings.”
“Marie!”
“Rank heresy, isn't it?” smiled Marie, tearfully. “But I do, truly. I love to weave the threads evenly in and out, and see a big hole close. As for the puddings I don't mean the common bread-and-butter kind, but the ones that have whites of eggs and fruit, and pretty quivery jellies all ruby and amber lights, you know.”
“You dear little piece of domesticity,” laughed Billy. “Then why in the world don't you do these things?”
“I can't, in my own kitchen; I can't afford a kitchen to do them in. And I just couldn't do them—right along—in other people's kitchens.”