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to break his eggshell, and a fresh silver spoon for his coffee, which he sugared with a particular spoon meant only for sugar. The silverware lay in a tarnish-proof box on a high shelf all to itself, and David lifted it down carefully to take out a service for two. It made a lavish display set out on the table—knives, forks, salad forks, more forks for the pie, a spoon to each place, and the special serving pieces—the sugar spoon, the large serving spoons for the potatoes and the salad, the fork for the meat, and the pie fork. When the table held as much silverware as two people could possibly use he put the box back on the shelf and stood back, checking everything and admiring the table, shining and clean. Then he went into his living-room to read his mother’s letter and wait for Marcia.
    The potatoes were done before Marcia came, and then suddenly the door burst open and Marcia arrived with a shout and fresh air and disorder. She was a tall handsome girl with a loud voice, wearing a dirty raincoat, and she said, “I didn’t forget, Davie, I’m just late as usual. What’s for dinner? You’re not mad, are you?”
    David got up and came over to take her coat. “I left a note for you,” he said.
    “Didn’t see it,” Marcia said. “Haven’t been home. Something smells good.”
    “Fried potatoes,” David said. “Everything’s ready.”
    “Golly.” Marcia fell into a chair to sit with her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms hanging. “I’m tired,” she said. “It’s cold out.”
    “It was getting colder when I came home,” David said. He was putting dinner on the table, the platter of meat, the salad, the bowl of fried potatoes. He walked quietly back and forth from the kitchenette to the table, avoiding Marcia’s feet. “I don’t believe you’ve been here since I got my silverware,” he said.
    Marcia swung around to the table and picked up a spoon. “It’s beautiful,” she said, running her finger along the pattern. “Pleasure to eat with it.”
    “Dinner’s ready,” David said. He pulled her chair out for her and waited for her to sit down.
    Marcia was always hungry; she put meat and potatoes and salad on her plate without admiring the serving silver, and started to eat enthusiastically. “Everything’s beautiful,” she said once. “Food is wonderful, Davie.”
    “I’m glad you like it,” David said. He liked the feel of the fork in his hand, even the sight of the fork moving up to Marcia’s mouth.
    Marcia waved her hand largely. “I mean everything,” she said, “furniture, and nice place you have here, and dinner, and everything.”
    “I like things this way,” David said.
    “I know you do.” Marcia’s voice was mournful. “Someone should teach me, I guess.”
    “You ought to keep your home neater,” David said. “You ought to get curtains at least, and keep your windows shut.”
    “I never remember,” she said. “Davie, you are the most wonderful cook.” She pushed her plate away, and sighed.
    David blushed happily. “I’m glad you like it,” he said again, and then he laughed. “I made a pie last night.”
    “A pie.” Marcia looked at him for a minute and then she said, “Apple?”
    David shook his head, and she said, “Pineapple?” and he shook his head again, and, because he could not wait to tell her, said, “Cherry.”
    “My God !” Marcia got up and followed him into the kitchen and looked over his shoulder while he took the pie carefully out of the breadbox. “Is this the first pie you ever made?”
    “I’ve made two before,” David admitted, “but this one turned out better than the others.”
    She watched happily while he cut large pieces of pie and put them on other orange plates, and then she carried her own plate back to the table, tasted the pie, and made wordless gestures of appreciation. David tasted his pie and said critically, “I think it’s a little sour. I ran out of sugar.”
    “It’s perfect,” Marcia