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."

Hertha looked straight at the begonia in the center of the table. How
could she have said anything so stupid! Hertha Ogilvie had no brother.
Now she would have to begin making up a story, lying about things. She
ought to appear very angry. Imagine a white girl hearing her brother
called a nigger and not resenting it; but again, imagine Hertha Williams
sitting by the fire and warming herself and denying her brother Tom.

"I don't know why American men should not cook," William Applebaum at
length broke in with his deep, pleasant voice. "The greatest chefs in
the world are men. I wish, Miss Hertha, you would let me turn cook like
your brother and show me how to make this pudding."

The meal finished, they left the dishes to be washed later and went into
the front room where William Applebaum admired the picture which Hertha
had framed.

"Yes," Kathleen said, "Hertha is spoiling me with her pretty rooms and
her good things to eat. I've not been to my Socialist local for a month
now. It's so comfortable here the nights I can be home."

"We went out last Thursday, Kathleen."

"You're right, we did. And you should have been with us, Billy. Such a
talk as we heard of the poverty in the South."

"Perhaps Mr. Applebaum would have preferred the movie," Hertha said
mischievously.

She was quite herself again, and curled up on the cot, her back against
the wall, was prepared to watch the two in their talk, for she knew well
enough that she would soon be forgotten. Kathleen had given the armchair
to her guest and sat erect in her straight seat. Her soft white
shirtwaist set off her fresh cheeks, her gray eyes, her large but
sensitive mouth. But she had no thought of her appearance, she was
prepared to be serious.