“The total depravity of inanimate things.”  Mrs. Thorne had reason to believe in that doctrine next morning, when she entered her dining-room and found a small sea of batter on her carpet, surrounding the pail and widening in all directions, though this stuff could hardly be called “inanimate;” it oozed from under the pail cover in a most animated manner.

“It is light, at least; that is one consolation.” said Mrs. Thorne, trying to be philosophical as she ruefully surveyed her carpet, then hastily calling Joanna to clean it up—­“Philip should not see that.”  When the cakes were brought in this morning, Ruey cast a little triumphant look at Philip.  By dint of a hot griddle and much grease they had a streak of brown here and there.

“Horrible!” exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, after her first mouthful; “these cakes are sourer than vinegar.”  Philip should not be the first to speak of any lack, as if she were not supposed to know more about such matters than he.  “What does ail them?  I’m sure I made them exactly right this time.  I must tell Joanna to put some sugar in them.”

“My dear wife, if you will allow me, I would suggest soda instead of sugar.”

“Really!” responded Ruey, her pride touched in an instant—­there it was, he actually thought he knew more about cooking than she did—­“and pray how do you happen to be so wise?  You must have assisted your mother in the kitchen,” she said, with a slight curl of her pretty lip.  “Up there in the country, boys do those things, I suppose.”

Philip was nettled.  Ruey had cast little slurs on his country home before, when she got her spirit up.  He controlled himself, however, only saying: 

“I don’t profess to understand the science of cookery, but I do know a little chemistry, and understand that an acid requires an alkali to neutralize it.”

Mrs. Thorne went straight to the kitchen—­shutting the door after her with the least perceptible bang—­and sprinkled a liberal allowance of soda into the batter, and then returned to the dining-room to await developments.  These cakes were yellow and spotted, and savoured of hot lye.  Mr. Thorne went bravely through a few mouthfuls until he encountered a lump of soda; the wry face that followed was wholly involuntary.

“I declare they are horrid!” exclaimed Ruey, bursting into tears.  “I knew soda would spoil them, bitter stuff!”

Mr. Thorne did not then attempt to show why soda would not spoil them, if properly used; grieved at his wife’s distress, and becoming hygienical, he said: 

“Don’t have anything more to do with these wretched things.  They are unwholesome anyway, and we are better off without them.  Give them up.”

“Never!” said Ruey, resolutely.  When Ruey spoke in that way, Philip knew she meant it, and he sighed at the prospect of discordant breakfasts through a series of experiments.  A text about “A dinner of herbs” floated through his mind as he walked abstractedly toward his store.