"_Nit_," George would answer. "Come on, Ju, we'll go buy a steak!"
But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had his
own way. When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emeline
invariably met them at the top of the stairs.
"We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you--you'll have to go back!"
she would say. Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred to
go with her father.
There was not enough gas heat under Emeline's frying pan to cook a steak
well; George growled as he cut it. Emeline jumped up for forgotten table
furnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth. After the one course
the head of the house would look about hungrily.
"No cheese in the house, I suppose?"
"No--I don't believe there is."
"What's the chances on a salad?"
"Oh, no, George--that takes lettuce, you know. My goodness!" And Emeline
would put her elbows on the table and yawn, the rouge showing on her
high cheek bones, her eyes glittering, her dark hair still pressed down
where her hat had lain. "My goodness!" she would exclaim impatiently,
"haven't you had enough, George? You had steak, and potatoes, and
corn--why don't you eat your corn?"
"What's the chances on a cup of tea?" George might ask, seizing a half
slice of bread, and doubling an ounce of butter into it, with his great
thumb on the blade of his knife.
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