and he wanted another. He
was pleased to get white bread too. He complains something dreadful
about his bran biscuit every day."

"I meant to send to the woman's exchange for different kinds of health
bread, but I forgot it," Nancy moaned. "Do they like the peaches at
all?"

"Most of them likes them too well. There was one old lady that got one
whiff of them, and pushed back her chair and left. I guess she had
took the pledge, and the brandy went against her principles."

"I never thought of that. I only thought that brandied peaches would
be a treat to so many people who didn't have them habitually served at
home."

The picture in Nancy's mind changed in color a trifle. She could see
sour-faced spinsters at single tables pushing back their chairs,
overturning the rose bowls in their hurry to shake the dust of her
restaurant from their feet.

"Don't accept any money from people who don't like their luncheon,"
she admonished Molly, who was next in line with several orders to be
filled at once. "Tell them that the proprietor of Outside Inn prefers
not to be paid unless the meal is entirely satisfactory."

"I'm afraid there wouldn't never be any satisfactory meals if I told
them that, Miss Nancy."

"I don't want any one ever to pay for anything he doesn't like," Nancy
insisted. "Slip the money back in their coat pockets if you can't
manage it any other way."

"There's lots of complaints about the soup," Dolly said; "so many
people don't like tomato in the heat. Gaspard, he always had a choice
even if it wasn't down on the menu. I might deduct, say fifteen cents
now, and slip it back to them with their change."

"Please do," Nancy implored. "Tell Molly and Hildeguard."

"Hilda would drop dead, but Molly'd like the fun of it."

It was hot in the kitchen. The soup kettle bad been emptied of more
than half its contents, but the liquid that was left bubbled thickly
over the gas flame that had been newly lit to reheat it. The pungent,
acrid odor of hot tomatoes affronted her nostrils. She had a vision
now of the pale tired faces of the little stenographers turning in
disgust from the contemplation of the flamboyant and sticky puree on
their plates, annoyed by the color scheme in combination with the soft
wild-rose pink of the table bouquets, if not actually sickened by the
fluid itself. For the first time since his abrupt seizure that morning
she began to hope in her heart that Gaspard's illness might be a
matter