“Possibly it’s because everything is so new,” he ventured. “Rooms come to have a look of home, you know, just by living in them and leaving things about. It’s a pretty room, all right, and I fancy it will take on the friendly expression you want when you get to strewing your books and magazines around a little more, and laying your pipe down on the corner of the mantel-piece, you know—and all that. I can upset things for you in half a minute if you’ll give me leave.”
“You have my full permission,” said Judith, laughing. “I fancy it’s just as you say: Wayne isn’t used to it yet. He always likes his old slippers better than the handsomest new ones I can buy him. Come—dinner has been served for five minutes. No more artistic suggestions till afterward.”
The dinner was perfect. It should have been so, for a caterer was in the kitchen, and a hired waitress served the viands without disaster. As a delectable meal it was a success; as an exhibition of Mrs. Carey’s capacity for home making, it was something of a failure. It certainly did not for a moment deceive the guests. For the life of her, as Juliet tasted course after course of the elaborate meal, she could not help reckoning up what it had cost. Neither could she refrain from wondering what sort of a repast Judith would have produced without help.
After dinner, as Wayne and Anthony smoked in front of the fireless mantel-piece in the den, each in a more luxurious chair than was to be found in Anthony’s whole house, Judith took Juliet to task.
“You may try to disguise it,” she complained, “but I’ve known you too long not to be able to read you. You would rather have had me cook that dinner myself and bring it in, all red and blistered from being over the stove.”
“As long as the dinner wasn’t red and blistered you wouldn’t have been unhappy,” Juliet returned lightly. “But you mustn’t think that she who entertains may read my ingenuous face, my dear. It isn’t necessary that I attempt to convert the world to my way of thinking. And I haven’t told you that when Auntie Dingley goes abroad with father again this winter I’m to have Mary McKaim for eight whole months. I can assure you I know how to appreciate the comfort of having a competent cook in the kitchen.”
She got up and crossed the room. “Judith, what an exquisite lamp,” she observed. “I’d forgotten that you had it. Was it one of your wedding presents?”
Judith followed her to where she stood examining an imposing, foreign-looking lamp, with jeweled inlets in the hand-wrought metal shade. “Yes,” she said carelessly, “it’s pretty enough. I don’t care much for lamps.”
“Not to read by?”
“It’s bright enough for anybody but a blind man to read, here.” Judith glanced at the ornate chandelier of electric lights in the centre of the ceiling. “The rooms aren’t so high that the lights are out of reach for reading.”