"And you know how," Kathleen added, and left her task. "There's many an uptown mistress, Hertha, would say that it was wrong for you to be manufacturing shirtwaists, when she needs you to wait on her table. I can just hear her telling you, 'Leave the factory, my child, and come to me where you will have easy work, (only fourteen hours a day) and a good home. (Her son will likely make love to you and you'll be sent from the house in disgrace.) Leave your coarse companions and learn the ways of a lady, (only you have them already)." "Oh, stop, Kathleen. Let me finish with the dinner, and you put on that fresh waist I ironed for you. It's on your bed." Kathleen went into her room to her perspiring work,--it made her hot to get into even the simplest dress,--and while struggling to hook her skirt over on the left side, she heard her lover's knock and Hertha's cordial greeting. "More flowers, Mr. Applebaum? A begonia? We used to have those at home." Then the voices fell away into the distance as the speakers went into the front room. "If this dinner is good, Billy," Kathleen said, when they were all three seated together about the kitchen table, spread with their best linen and china, "it's all Hertha's doings." Hertha smiled but shook her head. "Miss Hertha did her part, Kitty, I know," the guest made answer, "but the mashed potatoes are yours." "And lumps in them at that! I've not much patience with potatoes or the world; but if you're liking them, take some more." They all took part in clearing off the course of meat and vegetables, and then Hertha served a dessert of her own making, a fluffy-looking pudding of orange and custard and meringue. "And did you think I cooked this?" said Kathleen. "Come now and own up that in cooking the South beats the Irish." "The Germans are good cooks," said Hertha. "Perhaps Mr. Applebaum will cook the dinner for us some day." "A man cook the dinner?" the Irishwoman said in astonishment; and with a touch of resentment, "That's a woman's work." "Don't men cook here?" Hertha asked. Then, turning to the man present, "Don't men cook in Germany?" "Miss Hertha," Mr. Applebaum made answer, "I don't know any more about that than you do. I've never been to Germany and my mother was an American who asked me only to make the fire and bring in the wood." "You can take it from me," said Kathleen, "that the women do the cooking and the housework. Did you ever have a man cook for you?" "Yes," Hertha answered, "my brother." "Just like a nigger," commented Kathleen. There was an awkward silence broken by the Irishwoman's muttered, "I beg your pardon."