he'd been made up by an
artist. Then, the thin gray hair, cropped so close the pink scalp
glimmered through; and the wide mouth with the quirky corners; and the
greenish pop-eyes with the heavy bags underneath--well, that was a map
to remember.

And the worst of it was, I couldn't. Sure, I'd met it. No doubt about
that. But I follows the bunch into the house like I was in a trance,
starin' at Cyril over Westy's shoulder and askin' myself urgent, "Where
have I seen that face before?" No, I couldn't place him. And you know
how a thing like that will bother you. It got me in the appetite.

Maybe it was just as well, too, for I'd got half way through the soup
before I notices anything the matter with it. My guess was that it
tasted scorchy. I glances around at Vee, and finds she's just makin' a
bluff at eatin' hers. Doris and Westy ain't even doin' that, and when
I drops my spoon Doris signals to take it away. Which Cyril does,
movin' as solemn and dignified as if he was usherin' at a funeral.
Then there's a stage wait for three or four minutes before the fish is
brought in, Cyril paddin' around ponderous with the plates. Doris
beckons him up and demands in a whisper:

"Where is Helma?"

"Helma, ma'am," says he, "is taking the evening out."

"But--" begins Doris, then stops and bites her lip.

The fish could have stood some of the surplus cookin' that the soup
got. It wa'n't exactly eatable fish, and the potato marbles that come
with it should have been numbered; then they'd be useful in Kelley
pool. Yes, they was a bit hard. Doris gets red under the eyes and
waves out the fish.

She stands it, though, until that two-pound roast is put before Westy.
Not such a whale of a roast, it ain't. It's a one-rib affair, like an
overgrown chop, and it reposes lonesome in the middle of a big silver
platter. It's done, all right. Couldn't have been more so if it had
been cooked in a blast-furnace. Even the bone was charred through.

Westy he gazes at it in his mild, helpless way, and pokes it doubtful
with the carvin'-fork.

"I say, Cyr--er--Snee," says he, "what's this?"

"The roast, sir," says the butler.

"The deuce it is!" says Westy. "Do--do I use a saw or dynamite?" And
he stares across at Doris inquirin'.

"Snee," says Doris, her upper lip trembling "you--you may take it away."

"Back to the kitchen, ma'am?" asks Cyril.

"Ye-es," says Doris. "Certainly."

"Very well, ma'am," says Cyril, so