of days instead of weeks. She served Hildeguard and one of the
other waitresses with more soup, and then began to boil some eggs to
eke out the chicken, which, owing to her unprecedented generosity in
the matter of portions, seemed to be diminishing with alarming
rapidity.

From the kitchen closet beyond came the clatter of dishwashing, the
interminable splashing of water, and stacking of plates, punctuated by
the occasional clang of smashing glass or pottery. She had discharged
two dishwashers in less than two weeks' time, with the natural feeling
that any change in that department must be for the better, but the
present incumbent was even more incompetent than his predecessors.
Even Nancy's impregnable nerves began to feel the strain of the
continual clamorous assault on them.

Betty appeared in the doorway that led directly from the restaurant
stairs.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she said. "Don't blame Michael, I'm breaking
my parole to get in here. He locked me in and made me swear I'd keep
out of the kitchen before he'd let me out at all, but I had to tell
you this. The tomato soup has curdled and you ought not to serve it
any more."

"Well, I thought it looked rather funny," Nancy moaned.

"It won't do anybody any harm, you know. It just looks bad, and a lot
of people are kicking about it. Did Molly tell you about the old
fellow that got tipsy on the peaches?"

"No, she didn't. I sent Michael out for some ripe peaches and other
fruit to serve instead."

"That's a good idea. How's the food holding out? There are lots of
people you know up-stairs," she rattled on, for Nancy, who was getting
more and more distraught with each disquieting detail, made no
pretense of answering her. "Dolly has probably kept you informed.
Dick's aunt is here, and that terribly highbrow cousin of Caroline's;
and that good-looking young surgeon that suddenly got so famous last
winter, and admired you so much. Dr. Sunderland--isn't that his name?
I never saw Collier Pratt here for lunch before. There's a little girl
with him, too."

"Collier Pratt?" Nancy cried, "Oh, Betty, he isn't here. He couldn't
be. Don't frighten me with any such nonsense. He never comes here in
the day-time."

"He is though," Betty said, "and a queer-looking little child with
him, a dark-eyed little thing dressed in black satin."

"It seems a good deal to me as if you were making that up," Nancy
cried in exasperation; "it's so much the kind of thing you do