“I have seen the place.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I think you’d better get your milk somewhere else for a while.”
“Why, Dr. Strong!” protested Mrs. Clyde. “There isn’t a woman among my friends who doesn’t envy me our cream. And the milk keeps sweet—oh, for days, doesn’t it, Katie?”
“Yes’m,” replied the cook. “Three days, or even four, in the ice-box.”
“Doesn’t that show it’s pure?” asked Mrs. Clyde triumphantly.
Dr. Strong shook his head. “Hardly proof,” he said. “Really clean milk will keep much longer. I have drunk milk from the Rochester municipal supply that was thirteen days old, and as sweet as possible. And that was in a hot August.”
“Thirteen days old! I’d be ashamed to tell it!” declared Grandma Sharpless, with so much asperity that there was a general laugh, in which the doctor joined.
“I shouldn’t care to try it with your milk. It is rich, but it isn’t by any means pure. Eternal vigilance is the price of good milk. I don’t suppose you inspect your farm once a month, do you, Mr. Clyde?”
“No; I leave that to the farmer. He’s an intelligent fellow. What’s wrong?”