“Seriously, Harry,” asked the girl, “do you really think I’ll ever get so I can cook things 112 that aren’t an insult?” She swept the indigestible repast between them with a hopeless look. “I’m trying my best, but at times like this I get discouraged.”
“Certainly you will,” with conviction. “Now this bread, for instance,” he held up a slice to illustrate, “is as good as any one can make.”
“And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn’t make. It’s bakery bread, of course, silly.”
Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.
“These cookies, then.” He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure. “They’re good thoroughly.”
“Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day,” icily. “She was here all the afternoon.”
An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.
“Margery, little girl,” his arms were around her. “Don’t take it so seriously. It’s all a joke, honest.” With practised skill he kissed away the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. “Of course you’ll learn; every one has 113 to have practice; and it’s something you never did before, something entirely new.”
“That’s just the point,” repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. “It’s something I’ve never had to do, and I’ll never learn. I’ve been trying for practically a year now and things get worse and worse.”
“Not worse,” hopefully; “you merely think so. You’re just a bit discouraged and tired to-night—that’s all.”