Jean began to comprehend the sordid little tragedy.
"But you'll learn," she comforted. "Make Fred buy you a first-class cook-book. Try the recipes by yourself till you succeed. Don't feed him on the experiments."
"I did try by myself. I practiced on a Welsh rabbit, and I thought I had it down fine. So I surprised him one night after the theater when he came home hungry. He said it wasn't fit for a h-h-hog!"
Jean's indignation boiled over.
"It was a thousand times too good for him," she cried.
"Don't," begged Amy. "I didn't blame him after I tasted it. The thing I do blame him for and can't bear is the way he criticises my looks. I can't always look pretty and do my work. Fred seems to think I ought, and is always holding up Stella to me without stopping to remember that she has nothing to do but sing and change her clothes."
"Stella! Do you let Stella Wilkes come here?"
"Fred made me ask her. She's got a flat herself—just a common sort of a place that she rents furnished, with two chorus-girls. She's making money now. She left the Coney Island beer-hall for one of those cheap Fourteenth Street theaters. Fred says she's bound to make a hit. He's crazy about her,"—her voice rose to a wail,—"just crazy!"
Jean held the shaking form closer.
"Aren't you mistaken?" she said, without conviction.