“‘Shouldn’t mind having it!’ I’m asking you if you want it.”
“I want anything that you do.”
“Oh, Chauncey! You’ll drive me crazy-mad some day. I wish you’d express a preference; it would make it so much easier for me. Would you like chicken? I know that Cadmus has poultry on Wednesday.”
Mr. Callender’s expression became suddenly tinged with melancholy. Although he was now metropolitan in appearance, manner, and habit, his early existence had been spent upon a farm, where the killing and eating-up of chickens at certain periods of the year was an economic process, compulsory upon the household. A momentary sickness and distaste of life seemed evolved from the recollection as he answered,
“I don’t seem to care much for chicken.”
“You never do, and I am so fond of it. Well, chops then. Would you like breaded chops?”
“We have those almost every night, don’t we?” returned Mr. Callender briskly, under the impression that he was being agreeable. “When in doubt, have chops. Oh, yes, I like them well enough, when they’re not raw in the middle, like the last. But get what you want yourself, Cynthia, it really doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“That’s so like you! Why don’t you tell me at the time when things are wrong, instead of coming out with it like this, afterwards? Why didn’t you say the chops were raw? Mine were all right.” She regarded him with affectionate exasperation, her wrath tempered by a guilty consciousness that there had been undue sameness in the meals lately. “If I were like some wives—”
“The butcher, ma’am—he’s waiting,” interposed the maid apologetically.
“Tell him I’ll come down to the village myself and give the order,” said Mrs. Callender with dignity. “I’ll surprise you with a really good dinner to-night, something out of the ordinary. We’ll have a dinner party for ourselves.”