As Maria eyed the delicate little cups a savory odor of stew floated through the room.  She realized that she was not hungry, that the odor of food nauseated her with a sort of physical sympathy with the nausea of her soul, with life itself.  Then she straightened herself, and shut her mouth hard.  The look of her New England ancestresses who had borne life and death without flinching was on her face.

“I will be hungry,” Maria said to herself.  “Why should I lose my appetite because a man who does not care for me is going to marry another girl, and when I am married, too, and have no right even to think of him for one minute even if he had been in earnest, if he had thought of me?  Why should I lose my appetite?  Why should I go without my supper?  I will eat.  More than that, I will enjoy eating, and neither George Ramsey nor Lily Merrill shall prevent it, neither they nor my own self.”

Maria sniffed the stew, and she compelled herself, by sheer force of will, to find the combined odor of boiling meat and vegetables inviting.  She became hungry.

“That stew smells so good,” she called out to her aunt, and her voice rang with triumph.

“I guess it is a good stew,” her aunt called back in reply.  “I’ve had it on four hours, and I’ve made dumplings.”

“Lovely!” cried Maria.  She said to herself defiantly and proudly, that there were little zests of life which she might have if she could not have the greatest joys, and those little zests she would not be cheated out of by any adverse fate.  She said practically to herself, that if she could not have love she could have a stew, and it might be worse.  She smiled to herself over her whimsical conceit, and her face lost its bitter, strained look which it had worn all day.  She reflected that even if she could not marry George Ramsey, and had turned the cold shoulder to him, he had been undeniably fickle; that his fancy had been lightly turned aside by a pretty face which was not accompanied by great mental power.  She had felt a contempt for George, and scorn for Lily, but now her face cleared, and her attitude of mind.  She had gained a petty triumph over herself, and along with that came a clearer view of the situation.  When Aunt Maria called her to supper, she jumped up, and ran into the dining-room, and seated herself at the table.

“I am as hungry as a bear,” said she.

Aunt Maria behind her delicate china teacups gave a sniff of satisfaction, and her set face softened.  “Well, I’m glad you are,” said she.  “I guess the stew is good.”

“Of course it is,” said Maria.  She lifted the cover of the dish and began ladling out the stew with a small, thin, silver ladle which had come to Aunt Maria along with the china from her mother.  She passed a plate over to her aunt, and filled her own, and began eating.  “It is delicious,” said she.  The stew really pleased her palate, and she had the feeling of a conqueror who has gained one of the outposts in a battle.  Aunt Maria passed her a thin china cup filled with frothing chocolate, and Maria praise that too.  “Your chocolate is so much nicer than our cook used to make,” said she, and Aunt Maria beamed.