“You surely ought to know your good points better than anybody else does,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Very true, dear. You see, Tom thinks he is a chafing-dish cook, and really he _can_ cook; but the last time he made a rarebit my waitress gave warning, because of the state in which she found the dining-room—which was very mean of her, because we had waited on ourselves to save trouble.” “Partly for that, and partly because you wanted to talk about Coralie, and her sister is her cook, I remember—I was there,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Yes, but she didn’t know that we wanted to talk about Coralie, and I told her that it was to save her trouble.” “Wasn’t that the time that the rarebit made you ill, and the doctor couldn’t come because he, too, had eaten some of it?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin. “It was. I told Tom, then, that he must leave out either the doctor or me when he made rarebit again!” “With the result?” queried the girl with the classic profile. “That we didn’t speak for three days, dear. It was during that time, that I went to Annie’s chafing-dish party. She wanted me to make a cheese omelette, and I sent over for the dish. My messenger found Tom in the dining-room with a whole party of men—” “Cooking on your chafing-dish?” “No. Trying to entertain them while the new waitress hunted for it.” “But, where was it? You hadn’t taken it?” “No, dear. The cook had borrowed it for a chafing-dish party of her own, and neglected to mention the fact to either Tom or me!” “Then, I suppose really that each family should possess two chafing-dishes,” said the brown-eyed blonde, thoughtfully. “Yes—or none at all,” said the president, sighing. “Of course I am very much interested in this discussion,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “but I wonder if a thorough knowledge of currency problems will do us any practical good. None of us are earning our own living, and when papa talks about currency problems at home it is only to point the moral that times are hard, so—” “There is where your knowledge will be most useful,” broke in the girl with the dimple in her chin; “you can bring it out to prove that times are _not_ hard, and run off a lot of statistics to prove your point.” “But I don’t know any statistics,” wailed the girl with the Roman nose. “I’m afraid you have not been paying strict attention to-day,” said the president, gravely. “However, if you are in danger of losing in an argument, be sure to say, with a smile of superiority, ‘I suppose you know what the statistics are?’ Now, people are not in the habit of carrying statistics around, like cough-drops, and they will simply give up the battle on the spot. If they don’t, rattle off a lot of figures; they can’t refute them immediately, and if they attempt to do it afterward, you can just say, in a supercilious tone, ‘I thought we settled that matter yesterday.’”