sks, Lot?"

"Delighted. The pigs eat 'em." Her eyes held a quizzical light. "If
you're trying to rattle me so I shall forget something and spoil my
dinner, you can't do it."

"What do you take me for?" He departed with the husks, deeply
indignant.

In five minutes he was back. "When are you going home?"

"I don't know. Not just yet. Your mother has too many house parties."

"That won't make any difference."

"Oh, yes, it does! Her house is full all the time."

"Shucks! Have you asked her if there's a room ready for you?"

"Indeed I haven't! I wouldn't think of imposing on a busy hostess."

"I might say something about it," he suggested slyly.

"You will do nothing of the kind."

"Oh, I don't know! I'm going home myself day after to-morrow."

Hastily Elliott set down the kettle she had lifted. "Are you? That's
nice. I mean, we shall miss you, but of course you have to go some
time, I suppose."

"It won't be any trouble at all to speak to Mother."

"Stannard," and the color burned in her cheeks, "will you _please_
stop fiddling around this kitchen? It makes me nervous to see you. I
nearly burned myself in the steam of that kettle and I'm liable to
drop something on you any time."

"Oh, all right! I'll get out. Fiddling is a new verb with you, isn't
it?"

"Yes, I picked it up. Very expressive, I think."

"Sounds like the natives."

"Sounds pretty well, then. Did I hear you say you had an errand
somewhere?"

"No, you didn't. You merely heard me say that finding myself _de trop_
in my fair cousin's company, I'd get out of range of her big guns.
Never expected to rattle you, Lot."

"I'm not rattled."

"No? Pretty good imitation, then. Oh, I'm going! Mother's ready for
you all right, though; says so in this letter. Here, I'll stick it in
your apron pocket. Better come along with me, day after to-morrow.
What say?"

"I'll see," said Elliott, briefly.

He grinned teasingly, "Ta-ta," and went off, leaving turmoil behind
him.

The minute Stannard was out of the door Elliott did a strange thing.
Reaching with wet pink thumb and forefinger into the depths of the
blue apron pocket, she extracted the letter and hurled it across the
kitchen into a corner.

"There!" she cried disdainfully, "you go over there and _stay_ a
while, horrid old letter! I'm not going to let you spoil my perfectly
good time getting dinner."

But it was spoiled: no mere words could alter the fact. Try as she
would to put the