The table was set with an assured touch.

A few of Orchardina's ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs.Porne had had no time for.
The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them.
Mrs.Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks.
But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins.
On this they rested, while the week went by.

It was a full week, and a short one.

Mrs.Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls.
When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband.
"Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she's nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says.

You know she's studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and things.