“I said you were a fine little cook,” he began ingratiatingly. “Nothing wrong in that, is there? Why, I’m proud of you, Kathleen! Only this afternoon I was telling Sawyer how you could cook.”
“Well, you’d just better find something else to praise me for!” she cried. “I’m something more than a cook, and the sooner you learn it the better!”
He was astounded and somewhat shocked at her violence—dismayed, too. He had an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t handle this situation adequately. So, according to his habit, he decided to go away, believing, as many other people believe, that if he weren’t in the situation, there would be no situation. But his cool deliberations were upset. Moreover, his cigar was out, and he didn’t like relighted cigars.
He got the books in which he was trying to work out a new idea of hotel bookkeeping, but he couldn’t do a thing. He couldn’t put out of his mind the image of that girl, that provoking and beloved girl, with her angry, rosy little face and her eyes full of tears.
“Women!” he thought savagely.
No denying, though, that she was a wonderful wife and companion. She had never complained before, she had never failed him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her get up and begin carrying the dishes over to the sink. He thought he would help her, and then he thought he wouldn’t. It would be weakness.
Still, it would do no harm to conciliate her. Perhaps, if he did, his working mood would return. He watched her for a few minutes longer, bending over the dish pan. Then he got up, went over to her, and, putting an arm about her, drew her close against him.
Then a devil entered into him.
“Why, you silly kid!” he said, kissing her. “You’re the best little cook!”
She turned and gave him a smart box on the ear.