“My dear girl,” he announced consolingly, “if every man who has shown himself incompetent to direct the finances of his family and his business were deprived of the ballot, the voting list in this city would be cut down about three-fourths. But how does this bear on your trip to Montclair?” “Oh, in lots of ways,” replied Mrs. Larry firmly. “Now about the kitchen. You see, dear, there is so much waste for families like ours, who buy in small quantities. And there is waste in service when each family keeps a maid in a small apartment like this. That’s why Teresa Moore said we really ought to see the Montclair Cooperative Kitchen. “Now suppose she and I had adjoining apartments. Suppose we had one maid between us instead of two, and that the marketing was done simultaneously for both families in larger quantities, and the cooking and serving were done in either her apartment or mine for both families, see?” Mr. Larry looked alarmed. “I see, but I don’t care for it. I like Teresa--in small doses--but I do not relish the idea of eating my meals with her three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. A man chooses the woman who’s to sit opposite him at table because he loves her, not for economic reasons. If this is what your investigations are leading to, we’ll quit here and now. Of course, I don’t want to interfere with your friendship with Teresa, but--” “Larry, Larry,” chortled his wife, “do run down a minute or two and let me explain. I was only leading up to the Montclair experience by presenting a hypothetical case, as the lawyers do--” “Oh, if it’s only that--” said the mollified Mr. Larry, setting down once more to listen. “And anyhow,” pursued his wife, “you wouldn’t have to sit opposite anybody but me. We’d have a table of our own, one for each family.” “Like a high-class boarding house, I suppose, with near-silk candle-shades and a bargain counter fern dish in near-silver--” “But you don’t have to go to the cooperative kitchen if you don’t want to; you can have your meals sent piping hot by paying a little more, and even a trim maid to serve the dinner for you,” finished Mrs. Larry in triumph. “Fine! And if you wanted a second helping of mashed potatoes, I suppose the trim little maid would trip down three blocks and bring it back on the run. Great on a rainy night. And suppose that I didn’t like onions in my turkey stuffing, but Teresa’s husband did, who would win?” Mrs. Larry shook her head at him. “That’s why cooperative kitchens fail. You men will have the kind of bread your mother used to bake--” “No, the kind of pie my wife makes, lemon with meringue this high. Do you think there’s a cooperative kitchen on earth that can bake a pie like yours?” “But you can’t save a lot of money and have just what you want to eat, Larry, dear.”