in the long folds of white linen outlined
against the Madonna blue of the dress that she was wearing. Nancy
blushed under the intentness of his gaze, understanding, thanks to
Caroline's report of his conversation with Betty, something of
what was in his mind about her.

"Gaspard is going to be taken away in an ambulance," the child said,
"to the hospital."

"Then who is going to cook my dinner?" Collier Pratt asked.

"Good lord, I don't know," Nancy cried, roused to her responsibilities.

She looked at the watch on her wrist, a platinum bracelet affair with
an octagonal face that Dick had persuaded her to accept for a
Christmas present by giving one exactly like it to Betty and Caroline.
It was twenty-five minutes of five. Dinner was served every night
promptly at half past six, and there was absolutely no preparation
made for it, not so much as a loaf of bread ordered. Instead of doing
the usual marketing in the morning she had sent Michael out for the
things that she needed in the preparation of luncheon, and planned to
make up a list of things that she needed for dinner just as soon as
her midday duties in the kitchen had set her free. She thought that
she would be more like Gaspard, "inspired to buy what is right" if she
waited until the success of her luncheon had been assured. The ensuing
events had driven the affairs of her cuisine entirely out of her mind.
She was constrained by her native tendency to concentrate on the
business in hand to the exclusion of all other matters, big and
little. She had dismissed Betty during the excitement that followed
Sheila's illness, and Betty had seemed unnaturally willing to leave
the hectic scene and go about her business. Michael had made several
ineffectual attempts to speak to her, but she had waved him away
impatiently. She knew that neither he nor any one else on the
restaurant staff would believe that she hadn't made some adequate and
mysterious provision for the serving of the night meal. She had never
failed before in the smallest detail of executive policy. She set the
child back upon the cushion, and arranged her perfunctorily in
position there.

"I don't know _what_ you are going to have for dinner," she said,
"much less who's going to cook it for you."

"Perhaps I had better arrange to have it elsewhere, since this seems
to be literally the cook's day out."

"There'll be dinner," said Nancy uncertainly.

Dick came up the stairs three at a time, and in hi