"Cornmeal."
"What in the world are you doing?" cried Sydney, in amazement.
Friedrich looked annoyed. No one likes to have his house-keeping arrangements too closely scrutinized.
"Friedrich, this list is going to help you ver-ry much to know what you must or-rder from the—how you call him?" She appealed to John and Bob in turn. "The grocy?"
Friedrich smiled to conceal his irritation.
"My way, Hilda, is to get more of something when I find empty the box that holds it. I'm afr-raid I am not pr-rovident."
She returned his smile adorably.
"That I must teach you," she said, and Sydney and John turned away.
Sydney walked to the mantel-shelf, which was so high that it was on a level with her eyes. There was an array of pipes and a tin box of tobacco; a volume of Schiller, with some matches lying loose upon it; and, flat on the board, a photograph. She picked it up idly, not noticing what she was doing, conscious only of doing something, so that her separation from the others might not be noticeable. Her discovery proved to be half of a picture of a Neighborhood picnic, taken by an itinerant photographer who had established his tent near the Flora post-office. It was that side of the group in which she was standing, and her figure was brought into relief by a frame of card-board slipped over it like a mat. It had become a picture of herself, and of herself alone.
Her first feeling—the instinct that comes before thought—was one of pleasure; he had cared enough to do that. But quick upon it came the cry of wounded pride. She found von Rittenheim at her side, and turned upon him fiercely.