“In the kitchen, I believe,” Nannie answered. “I’ve been busy getting the table ready.” She held some flowers in her hand, and as she spoke she was occupied in placing them in a vase. One half-opened rose she laid by John’s plate. He went into the kitchen and kissed Lucy as usual. Her muslin dress was covered by an apron. Her face was flushed and a loose strand of hair brushed her cheek as she bent over her cooking. She replied to his greeting without stopping her work. Instead of sitting across the old rush bottomed kitchen chair with his arms over the back and talking about his experiences in the city, as was his custom, he returned at once to the dining room. Notwithstanding John’s water colors on the walls, it was rather a bare little place, as Nannie had said. The twilight entered between the muslin curtains, however, and the modest array of silver and glassware glittered on the table. A breeze scattered the odor of the small bouquet of flowers. As John entered Nannie switched on the electric light. Lucy placed the food on the dishes and Nannie carried them to the table. “My, that smells good!” John exclaimed boyishly. “What have you got for us?” He and Nannie had seated themselves. “It’s a steak _en casserole_ with mushrooms,” explained Nannie, picking a tiny bit of lint from his sleeve. “I hope you enjoy it. Poor boy, how hungry you must be working until this hour of the day!” “I’m hungry, too,” announced Dimmie, who had come in and seated himself unnoticed. Lucy now appeared, her apron removed. “Are you, dear?” She hesitated by the table without seating herself. “Why don’t you sit down, Lucy?” John asked. Lucy seated herself. “Will you hand me my napkin ring, Mamma,” she requested, at the same time passing a folded napkin without a ring to her mother. “Why, is this your place?” exclaimed Nannie, rising. “Come, let’s change. I didn’t notice.” “It makes no difference, Nannie,” put in John. “Sit down and let’s have dinner.” “No, it makes no difference,” acquiesced Lucy, and Mrs. Merwent reseated herself. “Well, as I’m here, I might as well serve the plates,” remarked Nannie. “I want to do _something_ to help.” During the meal John talked of art, his manner youthfully eager, and his hair falling over his forehead from which he pushed it back with the graceful gesture peculiar to him. “I have to design cheap houses, Nannie,” he bewailed whimsically, “instead of listening to the voices of the unseen that are calling to me.” “It’s a pity you haven’t money so you could follow your natural bent and be an artist,” said Nannie. “I am an artist,” John rejoined, rather warmly. “One doesn’t need to hold oneself aloof from common life to be an artist. On the other hand one must learn not to despise common things, but to see beauty in them.” “I only meant I wished you didn’t have to worry about money,” she persisted.