"N-no, I don't think mother ever kept house," said Virgie doubtfully. "She used to have a first-rate housekeeper who managed everything when we were little. But afterwards, when I grew up, we were becoming so much poorer, that I told father to dismiss the housekeeper and save her wages, because I thought I could manage. It was wonderful," she added reminiscently, "how much we saved then."
"Perhaps your father was not as particular about his food as I am," he remarked sourly.
"I expect Mrs. Wells knows your likes and dislikes, does she not? If she will help me for the first few weeks, I think I can manage to please you," was the courteous rejoinder.
Gaunt laid down his knife and fork to contemplate her. "In some ways," he said slowly, "it appears that you do not resemble your mother."
"Who? I? Oh, no, I am not a bit like mother, except in looks," calmly replied Virgie. "Did you suppose I was? She is social and I am domestic. She likes going out, and I like home. I am shy with strangers, and she never is." After a minute's thought, she added: "You see, ever since I grew up, I have known the seamy side of things—trouble, losing father, and poverty. I suppose it has made me dull."
The man glowered upon her fixedly as she sat, with an empty plate, sipping her cup of tea.
"You're not eating," he threw out, at length.
"I have not much appetite this morning," was her gentle reply.
"Eat!" he shouted, springing from his place and noting with satisfaction her involuntary recoil. "Come, what's it to be? Kidney and mushroom, eggs, ham—what?"
She grew pink with distress. "Please, no," she pleaded. "I—I can't manage it. I—I simply can't swallow."