Mother said she was Lady somebody, but our cook is
much nicer-looking on Sundays. She didn't eat her salad."
"You ate it." Channing's fork was pointed accusingly at Dorothea.
"You licked the plate."
"I certainly did." Dorothea stood up, shook herself, sat down again,
and carefully arranged her knife and fork. "We were in the pantry.
Antoinette was ill and Timkins let us come in. You see, Uncle
Winthrop, it's this way. We are scientifics, Channing and I. We've
been brought up on a book, and we don't get enough to eat. Mother
says everything has been learned out of science now--I mean about how
much children can eat, and how much they can drink, and how much air
they can sleep in, and how to breathe right, and Antoinette says when
we were little we used to be weighed every day. And that's why we
stuff so when we get a chance. I'm ten, going on eleven."
"And I'm seven, going on eight"--Channing had not yet yielded the
turkey in sight for the salad to come, and his fork was still being
steadily applied--"and all we have for supper--"
"Is bread and milk." Dorothea's hand waved silence to Channing.
"Antoinette says the milk is magnificent, but I'd rather have
something with more taste that isn't so grand. I wish I'd been born
before all this science had been found out.
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