“Then what are you watching it for?”
“So it won’t burn, like the potatoes.”
“Maybe they all burned up.” Ted didn’t care much for potatoes.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Where’s the pan?”
“Which pan?”
“Oh, Ted Brandon! The potato pan, of course!”
“Oh, Nancy Brandon! What potato pan, of course! Has it got a name on it?”
Nancy dropped her magazine on a littered chair, in sheer disgust. She realized the meat was cooking; (it splattered and spluttered merrily on the shallow griddle,) and she too was hungry. Ted might be satisfied to eat just bread and meat, but she simply had to have freshly cooked potatoes. Wasn’t housework awful? Especially cooking?
There was a jangle of the store bell, actually some one coming at that critical moment.
“Oh, dear!” groaned Nancy. “What a nuisance! I suppose I’ll have to go—”