Letitia declined to argue. My mood was that known ascranky. We were in the drawing-room， after what we werecompelled to call dinner. It had consisted of steak burned tocinders， potatoes soaked to a pulp， and a rice pudding thatlooked like a poultice the morning after， and possibly tastedlike one. Letitia had been shopping， and was therefore unableto supervise. Our delicate repast was capped by “black” coffeeof an indefinite straw-color， and with globules of grease on thesurface. People who can feel elated with the joy of living， aftera dinner of this deion， are assuredly both mentally andmorally lacking. Men and women there are who will say： “Oh，give me anything. I’m not particular—so long as it is plain andwholesome.” I’ve met many of these people. My experienceof them is that they are the greatest gluttons on earth， withveritably voracious appetites， and that the best isn’t goodenough for them. To be sure， at a pinch， they will demolisha score of potatoes， if there be nothing else； but offer themcaviare， canvas-back duck， quail， and nesselrode pudding， andthey will look askance at food that is plain and wholesome.
The “plain and wholesome” liver is a snare and a delusion， likethe “bluff and genial” visitor whose geniality veils all sorts ofsatire and merciless comment.
Letitia and I both felt weak and miserable. We had made upour minds not to dine out. We were resolved to keep the homeup， even if， in return， the home kept us down. Give in， wewouldn’t. Our fighting blood was up. We firmly determinednot to degenerate into that clammy American institution， theboarding-house feeder and the restaurant diner. We knew thetype； in the feminine， it sits at table with its bonnet on， and asullen gnawing expression of animal hunger； in the masculine，it puts its own knife in the butter， and uses a toothpick. Nocook—no lack of cook—should drive us to these abysmaldepths.
Letitia made no feint at Ovid. I simply declined to breathethe breath of The Lives of Great Men. She read a sweet littleclassic called “The Table； How to Buy Food， How to Cook It，and How to Serve It，” by Alessandro Filippini—a delightfultable-d’h？te-y name. I lay back in my chair and frowned，waiting until Letitia chose to break the silence. As she was amost chattily inclined person on all occasions， I reasoned that Ishould not have to wait long. I was right.
“Archie，” said she， “according to this book， there is no placein the civilized world that contains so large a number of socalledhigh-livers as New York City， which was educated bythe famous Delmonico and his able lieutenants.”
“Great Heaven！” I exclaimed with a groan， “why rub it in，Letitia？ I should also say that no city in the world contained solarge a number of low-livers.”
“‘Westward the course of Empire sways，’” she read， “‘andthe great glory of the past has departed from those centerswhere the culinary art at one time defied all rivals. The scepterof supremacy has passed into the hands of the metropolis ofthe New World.’”
“What sickening cant！” I cried. “What fiendishly exaggeratedrestaurant talk！ There are perhaps fifty fine restaurants in NewYork. In Paris there are five hundred finer. Here we have placesto eat in； there they have artistic resorts to dine in. One candine anywhere in Paris. In New York， save for those fifty finerestaurants， one feeds. Don’t read any more of your cook-bookto me， my girl. It is written to catch the American trade， withthe subtile pen of flattery.”
“Try and be patriotic， dear，” she said soothingly. “Of course，I know you wouldn’t allow a Frenchman to say all that， andthat you are just talking cussedly with your own wife.”
A ring at the bell caused a diversion. We hailed it. We werein the humor to hail anything. The domestic hearth was mosttrying. We were bored to death. I sprang up and ran to thedoor， a little pastime to which I was growing accustomed.
Three tittering young women， each wearing a hat in whichroses， violets， poppies， cornflowers， forget-me-nots， feathersand ribbons ran riot， confronted me.
“Miss Gerda Lyberg？” said the foremost， who wore a brightred gown， and from whose hat six spiteful poppies lurchedforward and almost hit me in the face.
For a moment， dazed from the cook-book， I was nonplussed.
All I could say was “No，” meaning that I wasn’t Miss GerdaLyberg. I felt so sure that I wasn’t that I was about to close thedoor.
“She lives here， I believe，” asserted the damsel， againshooting forth the poppies.
I came to myself with an effort. “She is the—the cook，” Imuttered weakly.
“We are her friends，” quoth the damsel， an indignantinflection in her voice. “Kindly let us in. We’ve come to theThursday sociable.”
The three bedizened ladies entered without further parleyand went toward the kitchen， instinctively recognizing itsdirection. I was amazed. I heard a noisy greeting， a peal oflaughter， a confusion of tongues， and then—I groped my wayback to Letitia.
“They’ve come to the Thursday sociable！” I cried.
“Who？” she asked in astonishment， and I imparted to her thefull extent of my knowledge. Letitia took it very nicely. Shehad always heard， she said， in fact Mrs. Archer had told her，that Thursday nights were festival occasions with the Swedes.
She thought it rather a pleasant and convivial notion. Servantsmust enjoy themselves， after all. Better a happy gathering ofgirls than a rowdy collection of men. Letitia thought the ideafelicitous. She had no objections to giving privileges to acook. Nor had I， for the matter of that. I ventured to remark，however， that Gerda didn’t seem to be a cook.
“Then let us call her a ‘girl，’” said Letitia.
“Gerda is a girl， only because she isn’t a boy，” I remarkedtauntingly. “If by ‘girl’ you even mean servant， then Gerdaisn’t a girl. Goodness knows what she is. Hello！ Another ring！”
