Letitia sat bolt upright, suddenly. The paragraph seemed to sear itself into my brain. "'Many families,'" he went on, "'live almost continuously on ham and potato salad, which is usually kept in an ice-box two or three days until it is absolutely unfit to be eaten. The servant-girl question is, therefore, not only breaking up the American home, but serving to break down the national health.'" I tried to pretend that I was not looking at Letitia. Letitia tried to pretend that she was not looking at me. The dual attempt was a failure. We each knew that we were contemplating the other. "Perhaps it is true," said Letitia airily, "perhaps. At any rate, it reads well in the newspapers, Mr. Tamworth. Sylvia"--to the Zulu--"you can bring in the next course. It is _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_." When it arrived we would have given worlds to have been able to resume our discussion. It was then that we really needed to talk--and it was then that we couldn't! We could simply sit and gaze at the travesty. Conversation, which should be so serviceable as a stop-gap, failed us completely. All we could see was a sort of coal-black chest-protector on a large dish, and some boiled potatoes swimming in water on another. "She didn't _soufflé_ the potatoes," murmured Letitia tremulously. "They are not even _maître d'hôtel_," I suggested feebly. "You see," said Letitia apologetically, as I hacked at the chest-protector furiously, "Anna is in such a hurry to get to her singing class that she is at a disadvantage--" "Singing class!" exclaimed Mr. Tamworth, laughing. "How funny! I must make a note of it. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Fairfax. You see, I'm really studying--" "I do mind," retorted my wife quite irritably. "I quite see that we have given you material for study. Still, it is disagreeable to reflect that our little--" "My dear Mrs. Fairfax," he cried, genuinely distressed, "please believe that I am not serious. I only want you to feel that I do not share your annoyance. This--why, all this amuses me. It is interesting. It is great. Look at my good friend, Fairfax, wearing an expression that suggests Hamlet in his most melancholy moment. Why? I ask you, why?" "I--I--I'm glad you feel that way about it," said Letitia, with tears in her eyes, "but--but perhaps, you are just pretending--to make me feel comfortable." "It is good of you, old chap," I muttered, feeling as abject as though I had just put out my hand for alms and Arthur had popped a nickel into it. "How absurd!" he laughed. "Why, I'm a great diner-out, and I know all about it, and--shall I read you a bit more about the Women's Domestic Guild?" "I don't think I could stand it," Letitia said tremulously. "Sometime, perhaps, Mr. Tamworth, but not to-night. There are still the ices--_glaces aux fraises_. They can't be burnt. They can't be boiled in water."