The Very First Breakfast

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“And another way we could save money,” young Mrs. Ken Roberts said to young Mr. Ken Roberts, “is by not going out to our breakfast every day, having it in instead. It would be much nicer I think, anyway.”

He looked doubtful. “Who’d... who’d cook it?”

“Why, I would, of course!”

He continued to look doubtful. He’d been afraid of that. “You wouldn’t have time, it might make you late for work, and then the dishes would have to be washed and—”

“Oh, I could manage,” she said confidently. She gave him a searching look. “Why are you so opposed to my trying it? Don’t you think I know how?”

They had just returned from their honeymoon, and young Ken Roberts had apparently taken seriously all the funny-paper jokes he had read about brides’ cooking.

“Oh, no-o, Kittens, no-o, not at all,” he protested insincerely. He patted her hand soothingly. “You’re probably a swell little cook, only—”

“Only what?” There was more than a hint of amusement in Kittens’ purring voice.

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