He was not a horse to eat bran. His bakery--under
inspection--conformed rigidly with the Government requirements; but he
had no intention of spoiling his own dinners. Any necessary
conservation could be effected at the expense of the riffraff through
which he had driven coming from the station. Black bread was no new
experience to them.
He saw that Miss Beggs' small white teeth were crushing salted cashew
nuts. Noticing her in detail for the first time he realized that she
enormously appreciated good food. Why in thunder, since she ate so
heartily, didn't she get fat and rosy! She was one of the thin kind--
yet not thin, he corrected himself. Graceful. Why, she must weigh a
hundred and twenty-five pounds; and she wasn't tall.
The butler filled his ruby goblet from a narrow bottle of Rhine wine.
It was exactly right, not sweet but full; and the man held for his
choice a great platter of beef, beautifully carved into thick crimson
slices; the bloodlike gravy had collected in its depression and he
poured it over his meat.
"A piece of this," he told Emmy discontentedly, "would set you right
up; put something in your veins besides limewater."
She became painfully upset at once and fumbled in her lap, with her
face averted, as the attention of the table was momentarily directed at
her. There was an uncontrollable tremor of her loose colorless mouth.
What a wife for him, August Turnbull! The stimulants and rich flavors
and roast filled him with a humming vitality; he could feel his heart
beat--as strong, he thought, as a bell.
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