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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
126
"That
was
a
good
supper,
Harriet,"
you
say
expansively.
"Was
it?"
she
asks
modestly,
but
with
evident
pleasure.
"Cookery,"
you
remark,
"is
the
greatest
art
in
the
world----"
"Oh,
you
were
hungry!"
"Next
to
poetry,"
you
conclude,
"and
much
better
appreciated.
Think
how
easy
it
is
to
find
a
poet
who
will
turn
you
a
presentable
sonnet,
and
how
very
difficult
it
is
to
find
a
cook
who
will
turn
you
an
edible
beefsteak----"
I
said
a
good
deal
more
on
this
subject
which
I
shall
not
attempt
to
repeat.
Harriet
did
not
listen
through
it
all.
She
knows
what
I
am
capable
of
when
I
really
get
started;
and
she
has
her
well-defined
limits.
A
practical
person,
Harriet!
When
I
have
gone
about
so
far,
she
begins
clearing
the
table
or
takes
up
her
mending--but
I
don't
mind
it
at
all.
Having
begun
talking,
it
is
wonderful
how
pleasant
one's
own
voice
becomes.
And
think
of
having
a
clear
field--and
no
interruptions!
My
own
particular
room,
where
I
am
permitted
to
revel
in
the
desert
of
my
own
disorder,
opens
comfortably
off
the
sitting-room.
A
lamp
with
a
green
shade
stands
invitingly
on
the
table
shedding
a
circle
of
light
on
the
books
and
papers
underneath,
but
leaving
all
the
remainder
of
the
room
in
dim
pleasantness.
At
one
side
stands
a
comfortable
big
chair
with
everything
in
arm's
reach,
including
my
note
books
and
ink
bottle.
Where
I
sit
I
can
look
out
through
the
open
doorway
and
see
Harriet
near
the
fireplace
rocking
and
sewing.
Sometimes
she
hums
a
little
tune
which
I
never
confess
to
hearing,
lest
I
miss
some
of
the
unconscious
cadences.
Let
the
wind
blow
outside
and
the
snow
drift
in
piles
around
the
doorway
and
the
blinds
rattle--I
have
before
me
a
whole
long
pleasant
evening.
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