caress. Respond to his
caresses, yes! but offer them of my own volition, never! There is
something inside me that makes it an absolute impossibility.

"What's the menu, Madge? The beef again?"

Dicky's tone was mildly quizzical, his smile mischievous, but I
flushed hotly. He had touched a sore spot. The butcher had brought
me a huge slab of meat for my first dinner when I had timidly ordered
"rib roast," and with the aid of my mother's cook book and my own
smattering of cooking, my sole housewifely accomplishment, I had been
trying to disguise it for subsequent meals.

"This is positively its last appearance on any stage," I assured him,
trying to be gay. "Besides, it's a casserole, with rice, and I defy
you to detect whether the chief ingredient be fish, flesh or fowl."

"Casserole is usually my pet aversion," Dicky said solemnly. Look not
on the casserole when it is table d'hote, is one of the pet little
proverbs in my immediate set. Too much like Spanish steak and the
other good chances for ptomaines. But if you made it I'll tackle
it--if you have to call the ambulance in the next half-hour."

"Dicky, you surely do not think I would use meat that was doubtful,
do you?" I asked, horror-stricken. "Don't eat it. Wait and I'll fix up
some eggs for you."

Dicky rose stiffly, walked slowly around to my side of the table, and
gravely tapped my head in imitation of a phrenologist.

"Absolute depression where the bump called 'sense of humor' ought to
be. Too bad! Pretty creature, too. Cause her lots of trouble, in the
days to come," he chanted solemnly.

Then he bent and kissed me. "Don't be a goose, Madge," he admonished,
"and never, never take me seriously. I don't know the meaning of the
word. Come on, let's eat the thing-um bob. I'll bet it's delicious."

He uncovered the casserole and regarded the steaming contents
critically. "Smells scrumptious," he announced. "What's in the other?
Potatoes au gratin?" as he took off the cover of the other serving
dish. "Good! One of my favorites."

He piled a liberal portion on any plate and helped himself as
generously. He ate heartily of both dishes, ignoring or not noticing
that I scarcely touched either dish.

For I was fast lapsing into one of the moods which my little mother
used to call my "morbid streaks" and which she had vainly tried to
cure ever since I was a tiny girl.

Dicky didn't like my cooking! He was only pretending! Dicky was
disappointed in the way I