To her surprise, she had grown calm. What did it matter? It was merely what one must expect, living in Oakland—something to be left behind when Oakland was a thing behind, a place started from.
“The coffee,” she answered. “And the butter.”
He emptied his plate of meat and her plate into the frying pan, likewise the roll of butter and the slice on the table, and on top he poured the contents of the coffee canister. All this he carried into the back yard and dumped in the garbage can. The coffee pot he emptied into the sink. “How much of the money you got left?” he next wanted to know.
Saxon had already gone to her purse and taken it out.
“Three dollars and eighty cents,” she counted, handing it to him. “I paid forty-five cents for the steak.”
He ran his eye over the money, counted it, and went to the front door. She heard the door open and close, and knew that the silver had been flung into the street. When he came back to the kitchen, Saxon was already serving him fried potatoes on a clean plate.
“Nothin's too good for the Robertses,” he said; “but, by God, that sort of truck is too high for my stomach. It's so high it stinks.”
He glanced at the fried potatoes, the fresh slice of dry bread, and the glass of water she was placing by his plate.
“It's all right,” she smiled, as he hesitated. “There's nothing left that's tainted.”
He shot a swift glance at her face, as if for sarcasm, then sighed and sat down. Almost immediately he was up again and holding out his arms to her.