"That was a good supper, Harriet," you say expansively.
"Was it?" she asks modestly, but with evident pleasure.
"Cookery," you remark, "is the greatest art in the world----"
"Oh, you were hungry!"
"Next to poetry," you conclude, "and much better appreciated. Think how
easy it is to find a poet who will turn you a presentable sonnet, and
how very difficult it is to find a cook who will turn you an edible
beefsteak----"
I said a good deal more on this subject which I shall not attempt to
repeat. Harriet did not listen through it all. She knows what I am
capable of when I really get started; and she has her well-defined
limits. A practical person, Harriet! When I have gone about so far, she
begins clearing the table or takes up her mending--but I don't mind it
at all. Having begun talking, it is wonderful how pleasant one's own
voice becomes. And think of having a clear field--and no interruptions!
My own particular room, where I am permitted to revel in the desert of
my own disorder, opens comfortably off the sitting-room. A lamp with a
green shade stands invitingly on the table shedding a circle of light on
the books and papers underneath, but leaving all the remainder of the
room in dim pleasantness.
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