Annie
returned a few minutes later with Phoebe--rebellious Phoebe, who at
that particular moment hated her father--he was in his shirt-sleeves
and aproned, breaking eggs over a skillet on the gas stove. His face
was very red, as if considerable exertion had been required.

Phoebe was pouting when she came in, but the sight of her father
caused her to set up a shriek of glee.

"What fun, daddy!" she cried. "Now we'll never need Bridget again. I
don't like her. You will be our cook, won't you?"

Annie's sarcastic laugh annoyed him.

"I used to do all the cooking when the Owl Club went camping," he
announced, entirely for Annie's benefit.

"In Blakeville?" asked Annie, with a grin.

"Yes, in Blakeville," he exploded, almost dropping the cigarette from
his lips into the skillet. His blue eyes flashed ominously. Annie,
unused to the turning of the worm, caught her breath.

Suddenly obsessed by the idea that he was master in his own house, he
began strutting about the kitchen, taking mental note of the things
that needed attention, with a view to reproving Bridget when she came
back to the fold. He burnt his fingers trying to straighten the
stovepipe, smelt of the dish-cloths to see if they were greasy,
rattled the pans and bethought himself of the eggs just in the nick of
time. In some haste and embarrassment he removed the skillet from the
fire just as Annie came out of the pantry with the bread and the
coffee can.

"Where's the platter?" he demanded, holding the skillet at arm's
length. "They're fried."

"They'll be stone cold," said she, "waiting for the coffee to boil.
You ain't got any water boiling."

"I thought, perhaps, we'd better have milk," he said, gathering his
wits.

To his surprise--and to her own, for that matter--she said, "Very
good, sir," and repaired to the icebox for the dairy bottles. He was
still holding the skillet when she returned. She was painfully red in
the face.

Phoebe eyed the subsequent preparations for the meal with an
increasing look of sullenness in her quaint little face. She was
rather a pretty child. You would say of her, if you saw her in the
street, "What a sweet child!" just as you would say it about the next
one you met.

Her father, taking note of her manner, paused in the act of removing
his apron.

"What's the matter, darling?"

"Can't I go over to Mrs. Butler's for luncheon?" she complained.
"They're going to have chicken."

"So are we," said he, pointin