It was a matter for tears, or rage, or laughter. And laughter won. When we recovered a little we took up the black shell of carbon that had once been syrup-froth; we laid it gently beside the oven, for a keepsake. Then we poured water in the pan, and steam rose hissing to the stars.
“Does it leak?” faltered Janet.
“Leak!” I said. I was on my knees now, watching the water stream through the parted seam of the pan bottom, down into the ashes below.
“The question is,” I went on as I got up, “did it boil away because it leaked, or did it leak because it boiled away?”
“I don’t see that it matters much,” said Janet. She was showing symptoms of depression at this point.
“It matters a great deal,” I said. “Because, you see, we’ve got to tell Jonathan, and it makes all the difference how we put it.”
“I see,” said Janet; then she added, experimentally, “Why tell Jonathan?”
“Why, Janet, you know better! I wouldn’t miss telling Jonathan for anything. What is Jonathan for!”
“Well—of course,” she conceded. “Let’s do dishes.”
We sat before the fire that evening and I read while Janet knitted. Between my eyes and the printed page there kept rising a vision—a vision of black crust, with winking red embers smoldering along its broken edges. I found it distracting in the extreme.…