She threw down the magazine she was reading. “I guess you won’t starve! It’s nothing but cook, cook all the time, anyway. I’m getting tired of it.”
Kincaid said nothing. His fingers were resting on the dining-table. When he took them away there were little patches of varnish showing through the dust.
She went out into the kitchen and wearily put on a torn apron. The sink was full of unwashed dishes. He saw them and was unwise enough to comment on what he saw.
She turned upon him like a flash.
“If you don’t like to see them, wash them yourself,” she said. “I’m sick of housework, anyway.”
HER MEMORY
By Dwight M. Wiley
Warrington had really no right to be angry.
He was not engaged to Virginia, merely engaged with her in a somewhat tempestuous summer flirtation. Down in his heart he knew it for just that. But he was angry no less, for she had allowed a “hulking ass” newly arrived at the Inn to “hog her whole program and make him look a fool before every one.”
“Ah ha!” cried the still small voice, “so it’s Pride not Heart.” And that made him more angry than ever.