Lucy took up the glass and tasted its contents gingerly. “I don’t like it,” she objected to John, making a face. “Oh, women usually don’t like dry cocktails,” he laughed. “That’s a Martini. We make Manhattans for the ladies. But it’s almost as good as a real one. Old Jim’s supply of alcohol and synthetic flavors won’t last much longer though.” Jim came in with Dimmie, and dinner was begun. “I’ve been thinking a long time,” Jim looked alternately at Lucy and John as he spoke, “that we ought to combine with some such firm as Layard’s occasionally so that we can swing bigger things. They are close to all the supply companies.” “Have some more soup,” urged Lucy. “Believe I will.” Jim handed her his soup plate. “It’s as good as I suspected. What kind of soup is it anyway?” “If you cant tell after eating it, I think its name would be wasted on you,” said Lucy, laughing. “Now that contract for the new incinerator,” Jim continued unruffled, “might just as well have come our way. In fact it was offered to me, but we couldn’t consider it because we weren’t in touch with people handling the materials, and hadn’t capital to tackle it alone.” “Do you mean going into partnership with Layard’s?” inquired Lucy, cutting up Dimmie’s meat for him. “Oh, no.” Jim smiled. “We’re too small fry for that. Just an understanding, so we can have more leeway, agreeing of course to let them supply us in our other projects.” “I see,” Lucy nodded. “Aren’t you hungry, dear?” she asked John. “You didn’t finish your soup.” “Oh, I’m all right,” John assured her. “I was thinking out a color combination for Howland’s house. I don’t like the shade of the slate roof he wants. It doesn’t go well with Milwaukee brick.” “Well, eat your dinner, dearie. You’ll have a headache if you don’t.” John began to eat with appetite. “What was that you were spouting about?” he asked Jim. “The incinerator,” repeated his friend. “I want to get hold of such things. Otherwise we will have to stick to small dwellings, and there’s very little in them under present conditions, except of course on a large scale.” “Incinerator!” John ran his fingers through his hair. “What a dream for an architect! I suppose you’d decorate it with conventionalized garbage cans.” “Well,” insisted Jim, “there’s money in such things, and that’s what we’re after.” “It sure is,” Lucy put in. Then, turning to Dimmie, “Don’t eat with your knife, baby. That’s not nice. Let mother show you. Hold your fork so. That’s right.” “Money’s all right, but it’s not everything!” exclaimed John. “An artist has dreams that are more than meat and raiment. But it’s some job to achieve anything artistic in this country!” “Or in any other country,” amended Jim.