One
never saw any of the modern "delicacies" on their Sunday evening table,
no enticing cold lunch, no spices, not even catsups or pepper sauces.
The turkey or chicken they had had for dinner was served cold in slices;
there was canned fruit, preserves, tea, crackers, bread and butter, a
large dish of cold pork and beans, and a huge glass pitcher of
ice-water.
In the absence of June, Delphine the cook went through the agony of
waiting on the table, very nervous and embarrassed in her clean calico
gown and starched apron. Her hands were red and knotty, smelling of
soap, and they touched the chinaware with an over-zealous and
constraining tenderness as if the plates and dishes had been delicate
glass butterflies. She stood off at a distance from the table making
sudden and awkward dabs at it. When it came to passing the plates, she
passed them on the wrong side and remembered herself at the wrong moment
with a stammering apology. In her excess of politeness she kept up a
constant murmur as she attended to their wants. Another fork? Yes, sir.
She'd get it right away, sir.
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