“But we must economize in something, you say,” continued Lucy. “I wish I knew where to begin,” she added, anxiously. “I don’t know what we can cut off.”
“We have not many superfluities, certainly,” rejoined her husband. “However, we must retrench as much as we can. I don’t know exactly in what—but as a general thing, Lucy. You must have an eye to saving all you can this winter; and next year I hope it wont be necessary. So good morning, love—it is time I was off.” And Tom took his hat and left his wife, who sat ruminating with a very doleful face, just where he left her, until the cook came for her orders for dinner.
The Coolidges kept a good table, usually—for Tom was fond of bringing in a friend or two occasionally to dinner; but, full of her new economies, Lucy, instead of ordering as usual, asked the cook “if there was not cold lamb enough left of yesterday to make a stew;” and that, with some mashed potatoes, was all she ordered.
“And wont I cook the pheasants that have just come in?” inquired the woman.
“No,” replied Lucy, who felt too poor to eat pheasants, “put them in the larder—it is so cold they will keep.”
“Will I fricassee or roast the chickens?” pursued the cook; “there are two pair in the larder.”
“No, the stew will be enough,” answered Mrs. Coolidge, and the cook left the room with a toss, wondering “what was in the wind now,” quite puzzled by her mistress’ sad manner of ordering dinner, and sudden notion “of having nothing worth the cooking.” “I guess Mr. Coolidge wont like stew,” thought the offended chef de cuisine, as she set to work chopping meat and vegetables.
She was right this time, at any rate—for Coolidge came home to dinner, bringing a friend with him.
As he took his seat at table, his consternation could not be concealed at the sight of the stew alone.
“Why Lucy, what’s the meaning of this?” said he, looking at his wife. “Did not the man bring home the marketing? I’ll speak to him to-morrow. It’s too bad.”